


Harry Potter and the Pureblood Prince

by Obsessionist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Depression, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 252,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obsessionist/pseuds/Obsessionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco comes to live with Harry and his relatives for the summer after fifth year, Harry thinks life at Privet Drive has reached an all-time low. Little does either boy know what surprises lie in store for them, as unexpected discoveries will be made and long-held preconceptions will be called into question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this story on the 27th of February 2011. Now, on the five-year anniversary, the story is complete and ready for posting! Enjoy!

Narcissa Malfoy was a proud woman. Or, at least, she used to be.

 

Born into the ancient and noble house of Black, the blood that flowed through her veins was among the purest in existence, and she was married to a man of equally high calibre. The combined fortunes of the Black and Malfoy families meant that they were one of the wealthiest wizarding couples in all of Britain. They were pinnacle of the social elite, ingratiated into all the most important circles while remaining superior to all those with whom they associated.

 

In addition, Narcissa was well aware that her appearance reflected her genetic perfection; she had unblemished pale skin, blue eyes, blonde hair and fine-boned features. She was the envy of many a witch and was not afraid to flaunt her beauty in her own dignified and poised manner.

 

On a normal day, Narcissa’s very presence commanded respect.

 

Today was not a normal day.

 

She stood in the shadows, doing her utmost to escape notice as the platform filled with more and more parents anxiously awaiting the arrival of the Hogwarts Express. The atmosphere was not the same as it had been in previous years. Usually, the imminent return of the boarding school students for the summer holidays evoked a mixture of joyful anticipation and half-hearted dread.

 

This level of desperation to see the children home safely had only been witnessed during one other period in history – the 1970s, when the Dark Lord had first risen to power. Now he had returned and the adults crowded onto this magically hidden platform at King’s Cross Station were terrified. Some of them paced, others held the hands of their partners in a white-knuckled grip, others simply stared at the as-of-yet vacant rail road tracks. All of them were frantic, wanting nothing more at this moment than to be reunited with their children and to whisk them off to the relative protection of their homes.

 

One might think that Narcissa, outspoken advocate of blood purity as she had always been and wife of a Death Eater as she had recently been revealed to be, would be less frightened than the rest of the parents. After all, it was well known that the Dark Lord favoured purebloods. Logic dictated that it was the Muggle-borns and half-bloods that had the most to worry about.

 

But Narcissa knew better. Yes, if the Dark Lord had his way those groups would be hunted eventually. But it was far more dangerous to be a follower of the Dark Lord who had fallen out of favour; worse, to be one who had failed him.

 

Never in all her darkest nightmares had Narcissa ever imagined that her husband would fall into that category. Lucius was always so careful to please and appease his master. He had been one of the most favoured Death Eaters, practically the Dark Lord’s right hand man. But fate had turned against him the night that he was assigned the task of retrieving the Prophecy from Potter at the Department of Mysteries.

 

At the time, it had seemed almost laughably easy. The Boy-Who-Lived was famous, true, but the fact remained that he was only fifteen years old. He and his little friends posed no real threat to Death Eaters who had trained and practiced in the Dark Arts for longer than the Potter brat had even lived.

 

Narcissa had felt no fear when her husband left on his mission. But he never came home that night and the next morning the newspapers were flooded with news of happenings at the Ministry of Magic. Foremost was the announcement that had shaken the wizarding world – He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned. Narcissa had already known that much; the Dark Lord had risen a year ago, but the idiotic politicians and reporters had failed to notice. That had suited the Dark Lord just fine for the time being and so her reaction to the news was instead fear of how _he_ would respond.

 

But the worst was yet to come. She had continued reading and each revelation was like a blow to her stomach. Dumbledore had been there, he had fought the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord had fled. The Order of the Phoenix had somehow received warning about the attack and had come to Potter’s rescue. The Boy-Who-Lived still lived and the Daily Prophet assured the population that You-Know-Who had not managed to accomplish what he had set out to do. The details of the matter were classified for the average reader, but Narcissa knew it must mean that the Prophecy had not been retrieved. Lucius had failed.

 

Against her will, she found her eyes dragged onward, reading more, and then the final blow was delivered. A number of Death Eaters had been captured and were now imprisoned in Azkaban. Their names were listed.

 

Lucius Malfoy was among them.

 

At that moment, seeing his name printed in simple, stark, black words on white parchment, her world came crashing down around her ears. Life as she had known it was over.

 

And so it was that now she hid alone in the shadows, awaiting the arrival of her son with a feeling bordering very close to panic.

 

She had found to her surprise that she didn’t care about her lost social standing. She didn’t care that now, far from being respected, she was scorned and hated by most of the wizarding population. She didn’t care about the owls that had bombarded the Malfoy mansion, carrying letters and Howlers filled with insulting and hateful and abusive words.

 

Instead, she found herself realising that she only really cared about two things in her world – Lucius and Draco.

 

Her insides twisted with worry for her husband. He faced imprisonment in the hands of people who, in their fear, were liable to lash out at him. He faced a cold dark cell with no one but Dementors for company. And if he did manage to escape, he faced the wrath of the most powerful Dark wizard of the age. All the worse was the knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help him.

 

And then there was Draco. He was growing into such a handsome young man, looking a little more like his father every time she saw him. He was similar to Lucius in other ways, too. His confidence, his pride, his belief in pureblood superiority.

 

More than anything, she feared for him. She knew what was coming. She knew that it was only a matter of time before Draco would join the ranks of the Death Eaters, although whether it would be he or the Dark Lord who suggested it first she did not know. Draco seemed almost eager to receive the Mark, but Narcissa suspected it was more out of a desire to please his father than anything else.

 

But there was something that Draco would not realise. The Dark Lord was not a forgiving man. With Lucius in Azkaban, he could not exact his revenge on the follower who had failed him in person. So he would devise another method. And it would involve Draco.

 

The sound of an approaching train startled Narcissa out of her thoughts. Her head jerked up and she joined the other parents in waiting with bated breath as the Hogwarts Express slowly pulled into the station.

 

Everyone else would be relieved to see their sons and daughters. Not Narcissa. She seemed to recognise something that the rest of them failed to see – Hogwarts was _safer_. With Dumbledore as Headmaster, while the students were at school they were protected from harm. The Dark Lord would not admit it, but the old fool was the one wizard that he feared. He would not dare to attack Hogwarts castle when Dumbledore was still there to defend it.

 

It was now, with the children back for the summer holidays, that they were the most vulnerable.

 

Narcissa didn’t want Draco to come home.

 

She was usually a proud woman, but not this day. This day, she would have begged Dumbledore to let Draco stay at school for the holidays if she had not known what the answer would inevitably be.

 

Even so, as she watched the students begin their haphazard tumble out of the train and chaotic rush to greet their families, she began to realise that she was willing to do anything to protect her son. Maybe Draco couldn’t stay at Hogwarts. But there was still a chance that Dumbledore would be willing and able to help him through some other means, if she found the right way to ask. It was well known that behind those merrily twinkling eyes of his, there dwelled in him a dragon that would emerge at even the hint of a threat towards his students. Surely, even the son of a known Death Eater would be granted sanctuary if the need was dire enough.

 

A part of her couldn’t even believe what she was contemplating. Going to Dumbledore would mean betraying the Dark Lord. He would be even more furious than he was now and he would not be the only one. The Death Eaters would come after them. It was possible that even Lucius would be horrified by the decision she was about to make.

 

But she had to trust that Lucius would understand. She knew that her husband loved Draco as much as she did, even if he did not often like to show it. If it were a choice between serving the Dark Lord and saving Draco’s life, she hoped that Lucius would choose their son. Even if he would not, Lucius wasn’t here. Narcissa was. And it was her decision now to make.

 

She saw the Potter boy exit the train and noticed for the first time the group of Aurors and Order members that had come to meet him. She shrank back further into the shadows but found herself watching the group keenly. She thought that she should feel hatred for that boy; he had, after all, been the one responsible for her husband’s capture and imprisonment. At the moment, however, all she could think about was how it was a miracle that Potter was still alive.

 

Potter had grown up in a Muggle home. He didn’t stay at Hogwarts during the summer, or even with a wizarding family, but returned at the end of each year to that same Muggle house. And he was still alive. Harry Potter. The boy who, more than anyone else in the world, the Dark Lord longed to kill. Was always trying to kill. Would never stop trying to kill.

 

He was still alive.

 

Narcissa felt hope blossom within her. If Dumbledore could protect Harry Potter, who was at the top of the Dark Lord’s hit list, he could almost definitely protect Draco.

 

She made her decision. She had always wondered about Snape’s loyalty, never quite able to decide whether he was the Dark Lord’s or Dumbledore’s. She only knew two things for certain: he was the only person she knew who could go to Dumbledore on her behalf who had at least half a chance of convincing him, and he cared about Draco. Like Lucius, his affection was difficult to see because he was reluctant to ever let it show. But she knew.

 

She had to hope that affection would be enough and that Snape had been Dumbledore’s agent all along. If he was truly loyal to the Dark Lord, her life would be forfeit. But if she didn’t do something, Draco’s life would be forfeit. In the end, it wasn’t really a choice.

 

Eventually the crowd began to dissipate as each family hurried home and still Draco had not emerged from the train. Narcissa hadn’t thought that it was possible, but her concern hitched up another notch. Where was he? Surely nothing could have happened to him yet-

 

She caught sight of a flash of blonde hair exactly the same shade as her own when a figure toppled out onto the platform. Ignoring the fact that there were still people around to throw dark glares at her as she abandoned her place in the shadows, Narsissa ran toward her son.

 

“Draco?” she called as she approached.

 

The figure on the ground shifted in response, but she slowed as it came into closer view. It did not look like a person. It looked more like a... slug. A slug that had been hit by a powerful Engorgement charm and then a weak transfiguration spell cast by a wizard with barely more skill than a Squib who was trying to turn it into a human but only succeeded in giving it slug-like arms and legs. And then someone had stuffed it into a Hogwarts uniform bearing a small, Slytherin crest on the pocket.

 

She shook her head in flustered bemusement and continued forward. She was fairly certain, despite his appearance, that the figure was Draco. That hair was very distinctive and the uniform was specifically tailored as no one but a Malfoy could afford to have done. Last year, too, Draco had arrived home looking less than normal – hit, apparently, by a number of spells from different people as he had tried to simply have a cordial conversation with the Potter boy.

 

She suspected that something similar had happened this time. She felt a flash of anger banish her fear for a moment; she wished that the Dark Lord would curse the ones who had hurt her son like this into oblivion. The heated emotion faded, though, and she accepted that school children would often do stupid things. With the knowledge that Draco’s father was a Death Eater, the students had probably worried that he would try to harm them or the Potter boy and acted instinctively.  She was still annoyed, but she could understand their desire to protect themselves and each other.

 

Wrinkling her nose ever so slightly, Narcissa knelt down beside her son. She pulled out her wand and performed a complicated series of spells to counteract what had been done to him. Gradually the slug came to resemble Draco’s usual appearance more and more, and finally he was back to normal.

 

Narcissa smiled down fondly at her handsome child and then pulled the expression back behind her mask.

 

“What happened this time, Draco?” she asked, standing and removing the dust from her robes with a simple flick of her wand.

 

Draco coughed, blinked blearily up at her and then bolted upright. “Mother!” His eyes searched around them wildly, likely looking for his assailants. “They attacked me!”

 

Narcissa had gathered that much. “And who exactly are ‘they’, Draco?”

 

The boy’s face creased into an angry scowl. “Bloody Potter and his stupid fan club!” His voice dropped to a growl. “I swear, if I ever get him alone he’s going to pay for this. _And_ for what he did to Father!”

 

Internally Narcissa smiled at the passion she heard in Draco’s voice and the fierce loyalty behind it. Out loud, however, she admonished him with a quiet but firm, “Hush, Draco. This is neither the time nor the place to be heard ranting against the Boy-Who-Lived.”

 

Draco muttered darkly to himself but obediently said nothing more about Potter as they collected his trunk, made their way to one of the fireplaces which lined the platform and Flooed home to Malfoy Manor.

 

Absently, Narcissa wondered how Draco would react to her decision and resolved not to tell him until it was confirmed one way or the other what his fate would be. She couldn’t afford to let him choose for himself because she knew what he would do and she knew that it would get him killed. He would just have to accept that she knew what was best for him. She was his mother, after all.

 

ooOOoo

 

As the car turned into Privet Drive, Harry felt the depression that had been pushing in at his emotions ever since the disaster at the Ministry finally settle over him like a heavy suffocating blanket. The presence of his friends had managed to keep it at bay for a while, but now it was the summer holidays. Ron and Hermione weren’t here. They couldn’t be, and truth be told Harry wouldn’t want them to be anyway. They were much happier at home with their families.

 

The thought didn’t even spark in him the brief flash of envy that it usually did. He couldn’t muster enough emotion for it. He was simply resigned. He didn’t have a family. He didn’t have a home. Hogwarts came close, but even it was hardly a place of sanctuary for him anymore. The universe seemed determined to strip that haven from him. It said a lot that Harry still wanted to go back there, even when it often presented him with possessed teachers, basilisks, disguised Death Eaters, evil toads in pink and annual life-threatening situations.

 

But it was better than here.

 

Nonetheless, here was where Harry had to stay and he was resigned to it now. Dumbledore had at long last explained; it was summer holidays with the Dursleys or death at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Perhaps this defensive measure was simply delaying the inevitable, since ‘neither could live while the other survived’ and Voldemort was by far the more experienced murderer. Harry wasn’t sure he wouldn’t prefer the final confrontation to staying here for the weeks that were required of him but he didn’t have a choice in the matter. The simple fact was that the wizarding world couldn’t afford to lose him right now. He was the only hope they had, the only person who stood half a chance of defeating Voldemort.

 

He couldn’t die yet. It would be such a relief, to give up the struggle and the fight, to surrender, to just let Voldemort win, succumb to the dark and join Sirius and his parents behind the veil. But he couldn’t. He had to put the needs of everyone above himself.

 

He could survive this. He had to. Everyone was relying on him.

 

“Out,” Uncle Vernon said tersely.

 

Harry hadn’t even noticed that they had pulled into the driveway of Number Four.

 

He shook his head slightly in an ineffective attempt to clear his thoughts and climbed slowly from the car. His uncle gestured curtly; Harry obediently moved to drag his trunk out of the boot. It was awkward and heavy but he knew better than to ask for any help, so he soldiered on until he finally managed to move it into the house.

 

“Cupboard,” Uncle Vernon snapped. “The stick, too.”

 

Harry’s head swivelled around to look at him in surprise, a protest forming on his lips. It swiftly died, however, when he saw the expression on his uncle’s face.

 

His spirits sank lower. He had known that it was a bad idea letting his welcoming committee at the station confront the large man. He had even tried to dissuade them, but he hadn’t tried hard enough. He should have. They had just made things worse.

 

Harry’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly and he lugged the trunk over to the cupboard under the stairs. He supposed he should be grateful that it was only his school things, and not Harry himself, that would be confined to the tiny space. Although it was possible that it would be safer in there.

 

Harry tried to take his time without being obvious about it, but all too soon the trunk and wand were stowed, the cupboard door was locked shut and he was forced to turn and face his uncle.

 

The vein on his forehead was pulsing dangerously.

 

“How dare you,” Uncle Vernon growled. “How dare you complain to other people about how you are treated here! How _dare you_ enlist some of those freaks to threaten me! HOW DARE YOU!”

 

Harry didn’t try to duck away from the meaty fist that flew towards his face. It would only enrage his uncle further and somehow he just couldn’t muster the energy to try anyway.

 

Glasses shattered. Blood spouted from his nose. Pain blossomed in his cheek. His head snapped sideways but he remained standing. And he didn’t make a sound.

 

What was this, really, in comparison with Voldemort? Or the Cruciatus curse? It was nothing. Training, perhaps. Teaching him endurance, so the next time he faced torture at the hand of a wizard he would be better able to withstand it.

 

He bore it silently.

 

Uncle Vernon snarled and punched him again, this time in the gut. A year fed on Hogwarts food had provided Harry with a bit more cushioning there, so it didn’t hurt as much as it used to. He grunted but he didn’t crumple.

 

Apparently his uncle wasn’t happy with the way this discipline session was going because he swung a heavy leg and knocked Harry’s feet out from under him.

 

He hit the ground hard.

 

It wasn’t too different from the Leg-Locker curse, Harry decided. Of course, without the pillows that had always been present during the DA training sessions, his head cracked against the floor and his breath whooshed from his lungs. Still, if Voldemort were ever to use the curse on him there would be no more pillows than there were now. It was decent preparation.

 

Vernon kicked him in the ribs. “Worthless scum!” he spat. “Befouling my house with your freakishness, your abnormality! You are bloody lucky that we kept you, that we _still_ keep you, after all the damage you have done to our family! And you have the NERVE to go running to those freaks with nasty tales about us? You DESERVE this, boy! And don’t you ever for a moment think otherwise!”

 

His uncle was right, Harry acknowledged as he felt a bone crack under the continued onslaught. He _did_ deserve this. Vernon was the only person who seemed to realise who Harry really was – The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Bring-Death-and-Destruction-to-Everyone-Around-Him. The death of his parents, Cedric, Sirius. The injuries of those who had followed him to the Ministry. The very return of Voldemort. No one in the wizarding world seemed inclined to place the blame where it belonged – squarely on Harry’s shoulders. But deep down Harry knew that he should be punished for destroying so many lives, harming so many people.

 

So he didn’t try to defend himself.

 

It would be pointless anyway. He had tried, once, emboldened by his escape from Voldemort and a dozen of his followers that night in the graveyard. Uncle Vernon and his belt had seemed petty and stupid in comparison and Harry had decided he’d had enough. He chose to fight.

 

He lost. Without magic, he had been nothing more than a scrawny fourteen-year-old kid facing up against a whale of a man. He had been foolish to even attempt it. He learned his lesson that day. And again, and again, in the days and weeks that had followed.

 

But now he didn’t even want to resist. He wanted this. He wanted to be punished. He wanted to feel the pain being bludgeoned into his body. It was well deserved. And it helped, in a small way, to ease some of the agony that was rending his heart in two.

 

“Get up.”

 

Harry hadn’t noticed the moment when the blows ceased. He wondered, briefly, whether his uncle would continue if he simply decided to disobey and remain where he was. Maybe he would kill him. That wouldn’t be so bad. He could see Sirius again...

 

But no. Against his will, he found himself climbing to his feet. He wasn’t allowed to die yet. People depended on him.

 

He wobbled unsteadily, waves of pain crashing over him as his body protested the movement.

 

The form of Uncle Vernon towering over him was a dark blur with his glasses gone and his eyes swollen, but it didn’t really bother him. The beefy man wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes anyway.

 

“Bedroom,” Vernon snapped. “Now. No food. Tomorrow, I expect you to mow the lawn, weed the flowerbed, paint the fence, do the laundry and clean the house. If it isn’t finished by the time I come home from work, you’ll be sorry.”

 

Harry nodded, ignoring the headache that pounded all the harder as he did.

 

He would follow the instructions. Not doing so wasn’t worth it. This was how life was. He just had to accept that.

 

ooOOoo


	2. Desperate Measures

Severus Snape had to admit, he missed the old days.

 

The days before Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts and the comfortable teaching job he’d held for the past ten years was suddenly and rudely interrupted by a child he simultaneously loathed and was sworn to protect. The days when summer holidays meant quiet solitude peacefully brewing, instead of playing the role of a double agent with a potentially lethal combination of Order and Death Eater meetings to attend on a regular basis.

 

Of course, this was the life he had chosen for himself. He had made the decision to break from Voldemort and work for the Light in the faint hope that his actions could save the woman he loved. He had known from the offset that it would be difficult and that his life would almost certainly come to a swift and brutal end when his true loyalties were inevitably discovered.

 

He had never expected that barely a year would pass before he was no longer needed as a spy, because Voldemort had been defeated. The cost had been far too great but it had granted Snape ten years of relative peace. It was tempered, though, by the terrible knowledge that he had failed and the sneaking suspicion that it was only a temporary reprieve.

 

The reprieve had ended at the end of the last school year, when the Dark Lord had risen again.

 

Now, Snape surmised that he had one day, perhaps two, before his responsibilities would come knocking. He intended to enjoy it while he could.

 

He reclined in his old armchair in the sitting room at Spinner’s End with a glass of elf-made wine cradled in his hand and sipped at it slowly, savouring the taste and the quiet.

 

The harsh sound of someone knocking on the door startled him and he cursed under his breath. So much for two days.

 

He set down the glass as he stood and made his way to the door, wondering who he would find on the other side. The only person he could reasonably rule out was the Dark Lord; the Death Eaters came to him and never the other way around.

 

The doorhandle wasn’t glowing an angry red, so the wards hadn’t detected any intention of harm from whoever stood on his front porch. It wasn’t infallible, but there was no point in dawdling so he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and pulled open the door a sliver.

 

A pale figure with long blonde hair stood just outside, huddled against the cold, blue eyes staring at him with a mixture of fear and hope.

 

He opened the door further and stepped politely to the side to grant her entrance. “Narcissa,” he acknowledged with a small bow of his head. “What a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Severus,” she replied, flicking a nervous glance behind her before accepting his unspoken invitation to come inside.

 

This was a far cry from the proud and haughty woman she had been only a few weeks ago, Severus reflected. With Lucius gone he could imagine that the world seemed suddenly to her a far darker and more foreboding place.

 

He wondered absently when he had become the person she would come to when in need of assistance.  Most of Voldemort’s followers didn’t trust him and he didn’t know why she did. Perhaps it was because Draco spoke of him so favourably or because his relationship with the Malfoys was as close to a friendship as it came within Voldemort’s circle. For whatever reason, she was here now and he supposed he should find out what she wanted.

 

“Please sit,” he said, gesturing to the threadbare couch and waiting for her to do so before resuming his own seat in the armchair.

 

He spotted his glass of wine sitting where he had left it on the table. He lifted it. “Can I get you anything to drink, Narcissa?”

 

She shook her head silently.

 

He abandoned his own drink, then. It wasn’t wise to come under the influence of alcohol when adopting a role in any case. Narcissa wasn’t the most dangerous of Voldemort’s followers, but it was always better to err on the side of caution.

 

“Well, then. How can I help you?”

 

For a long time, she didn’t say anything and he was tempted to use Legilimency on her to find out what she was thinking. It was impolite, though, and she was probably an accomplished enough Occlumens to resist his gentle probing. He forced himself to wait.

 

“I have a request to make of you, Severus,” she said at last, not looking at him. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. Another long pause followed.

 

“Oh?” he prompted.

 

She glanced up, blue eyes brimming with terror. “The Dark Lord trusts you,” she whispered. “I know he does. But... I believe... he may be mistaken.”

 

Snape’s hand was immediately at his wand, ready to draw it at a split second’s notice. But she made no aggressive moves towards him. In fact, she seemed to be trying to shrink back in her chair, away from him. As though expecting an attack.

 

He opened his mouth to defend himself, to convince her that Voldemort’s trust was not misplaced-

 

“I hope he’s mistaken.”

 

Snape’s mouth was left hanging stupidly. He was too shocked to speak.

 

“Because if he isn’t, I have condemned myself to death by coming here. And Draco by extension.”

 

“Draco?” Snape recovered his wits enough to ask.

 

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I know the Dark Lord’s wrath is terrible. I know Lucius failed him. And I know that He will not hesitate to punish us by bringing Draco to harm. I have only one hope to save him.”

 

She met his gaze. “You. If you are the man I think you are, you can help me. You can go to Dumbledore and convince him to protect my son. He will die if you don’t.”

 

“Why should Draco’s life be in danger?” Snape questioned cautiously. “I was under the impression that Voldemort intended to induct him into our ranks soon. I did not think he would be opposed to that, either.”

 

Snape had watched Draco for years. He saw the way that the boy had gathered cronies to himself, had adopted an air of superiority over all his classmates, had developed a strong animosity towards the Boy-Who-Lived and often belittled, insulted and bullied the Muggle-borns and half-bloods.  He became more and more like his father with every passing day and Snape had grown increasingly convinced that the boy would follow in Lucius’ footsteps.

 

A mewl of despair escaped from Narcissa’s lips. “The Dark Lord will use him. He will give him an impossible task, like killing the Potter boy, and Draco will die.”

 

She moved off the couch, kneeling on the floor before him, grasping desperately at his robes. “I can’t lose him, Severus. He’s all I have. He’s my _son._ Please, you have to help me.”

 

Snape brushed off her hands. “This is a trick. You are trying to make me denounce the Dark Lord and reveal loyalties to Dumbledore, but it _is not true._ I have been, and always shall be, the Dark Lord’s loyal servant.”

 

“No,” she sobbed. “No, it’s not a trick. I will not betray you. I need your help. Please, Severus, please...”

 

Her act was very convincing, but Severus wouldn’t fall for it. “Did Bellatrix put you up to this? She has never trusted my allegiance.”

 

“No, Severus,” she cried desperately. “I came of my own accord. You have to believe me!” Wide eyes stared up at him pleadingly. “Use Legilimency on me. I will not block you. You can see the truth for yourself.”

 

Snape’s eyebrows lifted despite himself. He was well known to be an accomplished Legilimens, one of the best in Britain, surpassed in ability only by wizards such as Dumbledore and Voldemort. Her invitation was a serious one. Unless she was a very, very good Occlumens, he would quickly break through any barriers she might have and discover any lies she might be hiding. Even if he could not break the barriers, he would still be aware of their existence and he would know that she was trying to deceive him.

 

The expression on her face was earnest. For the first time, he was almost inclined to believe her.

 

“Very well,” he said, raising his wand. “Maintain eye contact with me.”

 

She nodded, her gaze locking with his own.

 

ooOOoo

 

“She was not lying, Headmaster,” Severus reported.

 

Dumbledore sat behind his desk while the younger professor paced the office restlessly. Albus reached for his lolly tin and held it out in offering. “Lemon drop?”

 

Severus shook his head irritably, declining the sweet as he always did, unwilling to be distracted. “She truly fears for her son’s life and was willing to risk execution for the chance to be able to protect him. She still agrees with some of the Dark Lord’s ideas, such as the belief that pure-bloods are superior and should be in charge, but she does not agree with his methods and never has. Lucius was always the more ruthless of the two and even he began to falter once Draco was born, wondering if he was really doing the right thing for his son. They just didn’t have the courage to break away from the Dark Lord’s service.”

 

“Until now, you say,” Albus commented mildly.

 

Severus offered a jerky nod. “Narcissa, at least. I cannot speak for Lucius and neither can she, but she suspects that he would do the same if it meant saving Draco’s life.”

 

“I see. And it does not concern you that she was so quick to believe that you are not loyal to Voldemort, but to me?”

 

Severus flinched unconsciously at the name. “She was desperate. I could see in her mind that she had no clear proof of my allegiance, only a faint hope.”

 

“Which you have now confirmed,” Albus pointed out, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his tone.

 

Snape’s jaw tightened. “She will not betray me. Not if we keep Draco safe.”

 

Albus frowned. It was obvious that Severus felt affection for the boy and while such a positive emotion was usually something he strived to encourage in the younger man, it could well have jeopardised Snape’s very valuable position as a spy for the Order.

 

“I will consider it,” Albus decided, rising from his chair. “For now, however, I have a very important task to attend to.”

 

Anger flashed in Severus’ dark eyes. “How long will it take? Every minute we fail to respond is a minute closer to Draco receiving the Dark Mark!”

 

“I am sorry, dear boy, but this is unfortunately more important. And it will take as long as it will take.”

 

Severus folded his arms, scowling. “Fine. Then I will accompany you. Two wizards will be faster than one.”

 

Albus was about to protest, but he could see that Severus was not in the mood to be dissuaded and the attempt would only waste more time. “Very well. We are going to a place called Gaunt Cottage, where I expect to find a rather... unique ring.”

 

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Jewellery shopping, Headmaster?”

 

“No, my boy.” A gleam entered his eye. “Hunting.”

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco had the strangest feeling that his mother was hiding something from him.

 

Last night she had vanished from the manor for a few hours, leaving him with no one but the house elves for company. Oddly enough, they were better company than usual, cheerfully bringing him food and drinks and anything else he needed or wanted. They had springs in their step and smiles on their faces and everything. He suspected that it had something to do with his father’s absence; when Father was home the elves were to be neither seen nor heard except when directly called for, and he insisted that they punish themselves severely whenever they made a mistake or did something that displeased him.

 

Draco wasn’t quite as hard on them. His father had trained them to a point of near-perfect obedience, so Draco found that they would perform their duties adequately enough without any aggressive persuasion on his part. In fact, although Draco would never admit it aloud to anyone, he was almost fond of the little creatures. They were amusing, in their own way.

 

Nevertheless, he was somewhat offended by his mother’s actions – they hadn’t seen each other since the Christmas holidays, but the same day he came home she went out for the night.

 

And now he was getting the distinct impression that she was avoiding him.

 

She was acting all jittery, pacing the rooms of the house and absently moving things around, only to put them back where they had been originally the next time she passed them. Every few minutes she would return to the living room and stare into the fireplace for a few moments, as if searching for something hidden in the coals, before turning swiftly to make her rounds again. She would glance out the front windows almost as often, peeking through the curtains and then quickly pulling them closed.

 

Any time that Draco tried to talk to her, to ask what she was doing and where she had been the night before, she quickly changed the subject and then abandoned the conversation shortly after.

 

She had never acted this way before. Usually, it was all Draco could do to make her _stop_ paying him so much attention when he was at home. He tended to gripe and complain, especially when she was being overly affectionate – he was a teenager, after all, not a little kid. But now that she was practically ignoring him, he found himself wishing that she would show even a little bit of interest in him. He might even be willing to put up with a kiss on the cheek if it meant that she would stop walking around so aimlessly and just _talk_ to him.

 

He needed her reassurance that they would be alright and that Father would find a way to come home soon. Or, he needed to be given the opportunity to reassure _her_ and become the man of the house until Father returned.

 

But she just kept walking, fiddling, staring at the fireplace and glancing nervously out the window. It was driving him crazy.

 

He thought that maybe at lunch she would sit down long enough for him to finally work out what was going on with her. To his immense frustration, she only picked at the food for a few moments and then remarked that she wasn’t really hungry, leaving him to eat alone.

 

By evening, Draco had given up on the attempt for the day, resolved to try again tomorrow and decided to retire to bed.

 

It was then, of course, that something finally happened.

 

As he walked past the living room on his way to the staircase, he heard someone’s voice inside announce, “I am coming through, Narcissa.” The roar of fire that indicated Floo travel soon followed and Draco quickly retraced his steps.

 

He burst into the room just as the flames erupted in another pillar of green and none other than Professor Dumbledore stepped out the fireplace. Professor Snape was already there, brushing soot off his cloak, and his mother was greeting them both with a smile torn halfway between tension and relief.

 

For a few long moments Draco stood there gaping stupidly. His brain was having trouble comprehending this strange occurrence. If Snape had come by himself, it might have been easier to understand, but the _Headmaster_ was here. And his mother hadn’t warned him that they were coming, let alone explained the reason why.

 

Blue, twinkling eyes spotted him. “Good evening, Draco.”

 

Draco snapped his mouth shut and straightened. Manners drilled into him from a young age prevented him from glaring at the intruder, even if he _was_ an irritating old coot who treated Harry bloody Potter like a golden child and had caught him appearing gobsmacked by their sudden appearance. Instead he adopted a neutral expression and replied coolly, “Headmaster.”

 

Draco’s gaze wandered to Professor Snape, who offered a slight nod.

 

If Snape had come alone, Draco would have guessed that it was on behalf of the Dark Lord. With Dumbledore here, though, obviously that couldn’t be the case. Dumbledore didn’t know that his Potions professor was still an active Death Eater, the old fool. Entirely too trusting for his own good. It was going to get him killed one of these days.

 

“School only finished yesterday,” Draco felt the need to point out. “Was there some homework you forgot to give me or something, Professor?” He aimed this remark at Snape, although logic told him if that were the case Dumbledore would not have felt it necessary to come along. Then, of course, there was the fact that Mother had apparently been expecting their arrival and if it was only a matter of homework she would not have been so highly strung for the past day.

 

Dumbledore smiled. “No, dear boy, I’m afraid we are not here on school business.”

 

Draco lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. “Then why _are_ you here?”

 

“To speak with your mother,” the old man replied, and Draco suspected that he knew full well he hadn’t answered the question satisfactorily. There had been an underlying dismissal in his words, too. Draco was not impressed.

 

“Anything you have to say you can say in front of me,” Draco said stubbornly, stepping into the room and taking a seat before anyone had a chance to object.

 

“Draco...” his mother said in a low tone of warning.

 

Snape waved a hand. “He can stay, Narcissa. The matter directly concerns him, after all.”

 

Draco allowed his lips to curve into a small, smug smile as Dumbledore and his mother exchanged glances, then followed Snape’s example and sat down.

 

“So?” Draco opened.

 

“Severus brought your request to me this morning, Narcissa,” Dumbledore said. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled together. “I must confess, I was surprised.”

 

Mother tugged nervously on a loose strand of blonde hair, looking uncomfortable. “What is your answer?”

 

“Have you consulted Draco about this?” Dumbledore continued, as though she hadn’t spoken.  “Does he feel the same way as you do, or have you attempted to make this decision without him? Because I assure you, I cannot do what you have asked of me without his cooperation.”

 

“With what?” Draco asked suspiciously, annoyance lacing his tone. He did not appreciate the way they were speaking so cryptically.

 

It was Snape who answered him and Draco got the impression that his mother and Dumbledore would have been quite content to have continued blocking him out of the conversation if it hadn’t been for Snape’s interference.

 

“As you are no doubt aware, Draco, your father’s imprisonment presents a significant complication in the lives of yourself and your mother.”

 

Draco nodded slowly.

 

“You, especially,” Snape continued, “are at something of a crossroads, because sometime in the next two months, the Dark Lord is going to ask you to join him.”

 

Draco jumped involuntarily, eyes darting to look at Dumbledore. What was Snape doing? Dumbledore wasn’t supposed to know-

 

“And you have to decide,” Snape said, apparently oblivious, “if that is truly what you want to do. Because once the choice is made, it is no easy task to reverse it. As you can imagine, I speak from experience.”

 

Draco noted that Snape unconsciously rubbed his left forearm, the one that must bear the Dark Mark hidden beneath his robes.

 

“But you’re the Dark Lord’s,” Draco whispered.

 

There was a pause. Snape shook his head. “No. I used to be. I was young and angry at the world, and I thought it was what I wanted. But as time passed, I was pulled in deeper and deeper and I began to realise just what it was I had gotten myself into.” Dark eyes bored into his. “The torture and murder of innocent people, Draco. Helping a madman set up a regime of terror and bigotry. The death of the only true friend I ever had.”

 

Snape trailed off for a moment, his eyes taking on a faraway look, grief shadowing his expression. With a visible effort, he shook himself out of it, returning his attention to the here and now. “I can never go back in time and reverse what I did. All I can do is try my best to make up for it by helping in the fight against the Dark Lord.” His voice grew softer. “I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did, Draco. But in the end, it is up to you.”

 

Draco was silent, his mind filled with a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts. Snape was a traitor. He was a spy for Dumbledore all along. The Dark Lord had trusted him. And now he had revealed his true loyalties to the son of a Death Eater.

 

“Why did you tell me?” he blurted at last. “What is to stop me from running to the Dark Lord right now and telling him the truth?”

 

“If that is what you want to do, Draco, I cannot stop you. But I do not think you are a murderer. If you join with him, that is what you will become, and the damage it will cause to your soul can never be repaired. I do not want that for you.” Snape glanced towards Narcissa. “Your mother does not want that for you.”

 

Draco looked over at his mother, confusion swirling within him. “But, Father...”

 

“Lucius has always wanted power,” his mother explained quietly, “and the Dark Lord offered it to him. A chance, for purebloods to take up their rightful place in society. With each day that passed, the Dark Lord was one step closer to taking over and Lucius pictured himself as his successor.”

 

What was so wrong with that? Draco wanted to ask.

 

As if reading his mind, Dumbledore spoke up. “But Voldemort has no intention of giving up his power. He has found a way to gain immortality, of a kind. Lucius would only ever be a servant.”

 

“And one that has fallen out of favour,” Mother said softly. “The Dark Lord does not forgive mistakes or failures. If Lucius was not in Azkaban right now, he would probably be dead.”

 

Draco swallowed, realising for the first time how much danger they were in. “Where does that leave us?” he whispered.

 

“At a crossroads,” Snape said. “You could join the Dark Lord, as your father did, knowing that you as his heir present the Dark Lord with a perfect target for retribution. If he cannot punish Lucius directly, he will use you instead. And you will likely not survive the experience.”

 

Draco was trembling and he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

 

“There is another option,” Dumbledore said gently. “Your mother came to us to ask if we could protect you. And we can. If that is what you want.”

 

Draco froze. All his life, it seemed, he had been preparing himself for the Dark Lord’s return with every intention of joining him as soon as he was old enough. Voldemort wanted power for the purebloods. He was going to put the Mudbloods and the half-bloods in their place. There would be those that would be foolish enough to fight against him, but it was inevitable that they would lose. The Dark Lord was too powerful.

 

But now Draco understood how those Mudbloods and half-bloods must feel, fearing for their lives and the lives of their families.

 

Voldemort was a monster. Why had he never seen it before?

 

“Can you really protect me?” Draco asked softly.

 

“Will you?” his mother echoed, eyes wide and pleading as she stared at Dumbledore.

 

“Nothing is ever certain anymore,” Snape replied with hard honesty.

 

“But you have my word that I will do my utmost to protect you, Draco, if that is what you choose,” Dumbledore said.

 

Draco found himself nodding. “I don’t want to be a Death Eater. Even if – even if it turns out that you can’t save me. But I’d like you to try.”

 

Dumbledore smiled, and Snape gave him a small nod of respect.

 

Draco’s mother burst into tears and joined him on his couch to hug him close. For once he didn’t try to pull away, but wrapped his arms around her instead, willing to accept the comfort she was offering. He had just made a decision that, if Dumbledore’s efforts failed, could cost him his life. But he didn’t regret it.

 

Dumbledore waited patiently until they broke apart before speaking.

 

“I am proud of you, Draco. You have been forced to make a very hard choice at a young age and have chosen well. You have my promise to protect you.”

 

Draco nodded wordlessly.

 

“How will that work, Dumbledore?” Narcissa asked, delicately wiping the tears from her cheek with a handkerchief. “What... what will you do? To keep him safe.”

 

 “Well,” Dumbledore began, “I think it can be agreed that during the school year, Hogwarts will offer sufficient protection for Draco. When the student body is present, the wards around that castle are among the most powerful in the world. In addition, no Death Eater intending my students harm would dare cross the threshold while I am there, and I plan to employ a rotation of Aurors as an extra precaution as well.”

 

Draco felt a sense of relief that he wouldn’t have to go into isolation. Of course, the Slytherins might be more hostile towards him now that he had decided not to join the Dark Lord, but he didn’t think any of them would go as far as to try to hurt him. He suspected that Dumbledore would tell the teachers to keep an extra eye out for him anyway, so he doubted he would come to harm.

 

“And the summer holidays?” his mother asked.

 

“Ah, well I have an idea in that regard,” Dumbledore said slowly. His eyes seemed to be twinkling even more than usual and Draco got the sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t going to like what was coming. “There is one house that is impenetrable to anyone witch or wizard intending the inhabitants harm. Not even Voldemort himself has been able to penetrate those wards and not for lack of trying.”

 

“Which house?” Draco questioned shrewdly.

 

ooOOoo


	3. Unwelcome Changes

Harry winced as he hoisted the heavy frying pan from the stove onto the surface and his ribs gave a particularly painful twinge. He resisted the impulse to gasp and instead forced himself to breathe shallowly so his lungs wouldn't expand too much and aggravate his injuries any further.

 

After a minute he shoved aside the pain and went back to work. Uncle Vernon would hardly accept 'sore ribs' as an excuse for breakfast being late.

 

Thankfully he was almost finished. He dished out the bacon and eggs onto three separate plates, ensuring that Dudley and Uncle Vernon received the largest portions, then turned back to the stove to check on the progress of the tomatoes, mushrooms and sausages. They were nearly ready. In the meantime, the toaster popped and he set about buttering the slices.

 

He was setting the table when abruptly a loud _crack_ from outside shattered the early morning quiet. He nearly dropped Dudley's plate, but managed to rescue it before any of the food slipped off the large mound. He set it down quickly.

 

It had sounded like a car back-firing. Which either meant a car had back-fired, or a wizard had just Apparated somewhere nearby.

 

Harry contemplated this for a moment before he shrugged it off as unimportant. If it had been a wizard, it was probably just the guard duty changing over. They wouldn't stop by to speak to him, they would just take up their posts and watch for approaching Death Eaters.

 

He continued his task, and then the second unexpected event of the day took place.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

Shortly after Harry heard a loud string of curses resonate from upstairs and heavy footsteps thunder across the landing.

 

“Who the _hell_ decides to drop by for a social visit at this godforsaken hour of the morning?!” Uncle Vernon yelled. If Harry had been in any sort of mood to be amused by irony he might have smiled at the thought that if the doorbell hadn’t woken Dudley and Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon’s shouting was sure to do the trick.

 

A series of sharp raps on the front door announced that the uninvited visitor was still there. “BOY! Answer the door! If it’s a salesperson, get rid of them!”

 

Harry sighed, set the last of the cutlery on the table and moved to do as instructed. He couldn’t rouse in himself any feeling of curiosity as to the identity of the knocker, so he didn’t bother to look through the peephole or front windows. He just pulled open the door.

 

“Harry my boy!”

 

The use of his name – and spoken in such warm, cheerful tones – was so incongruous in Privet Drive that for a second Harry just stood there dumbly. His brain seemed to kick in as an afterthought and he finally recognised both the voice and its owner.

 

Professor Dumbledore was standing on the doorstep. Wearing a bright blue robe.

 

“Professor!” Harry exclaimed, genuine surprise sounding in his tone. “What are you doing here, sir?”

 

“I-” Dumbledore frowned suddenly. “Harry, what happened to you?”

 

His mind still working to catch up with the strange situation, it took Harry a few moments to realise that Dumbledore must be talking about the large bruise that crossed his cheekbone, blackened one of his eyes and accentuated the broken nose.

 

“Oh,” Harry said. Behind him, he could hear Uncle Vernon coming down the stairs to see who was at the door. “I tripped over that step there,” he gestured under Dumbledore’s feet, “while I was bringing my school trunk inside. My face hit the doorknob.”

 

Dumbledore’s face morphed into concern, but at the same time Harry heard a snicker. It hadn’t come from Uncle Vernon. It hadn’t been the professor, either, even though the sound had seemed to originate from his direction.

 

Before his mind had a chance to start work on the mystery it was solved for him.

 

Draco Malfoy stepped out from behind Dumbledore, a derisive smirk curving his lips. “The Golden Boy of Gryffindor: a colossal klutz. What would your fan club think of you, Potter, if they heard about this?”

 

The emotionless state that Harry had been floating in was interrupted by a flood of anger and his hand moved automatically to seize his wand. Which, of course, was locked away in the cupboard under the stairs.

 

Denied the ability to hex Malfoy to kingdom come, Harry was forced to settle for a dark glare and it wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

“My question exactly,” Uncle Vernon said dangerously. Harry didn’t have to turn around to know that the man’s face was crimson and the vein in his forehead was bulging. His reaction to anything strange or magical was always the same.

 

Dumbledore’s long, white hair and beard, his half-moon spectacles perched on an extremely crooked nose and his wizarding robes of brightest blue fit these labels to the extreme. Malfoy’s wore robes of a less obtrusive black, but they still were not anywhere close to the Muggle attire that Uncle Vernon was accustomed to.

 

All the worse was the fact that they were standing on the doorstep in _broad daylight_. If any of the neighbours saw them, the image of absolute normality that the Dursleys strived so hard to maintain would be decimated.

 

Uncle Vernon was undoubtedly furious. It was all Harry could do to stop himself flinching and ducking away.

 

“Ah, good morning sir!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “You must be Vernon Dursley. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster at your nephew’s school.”

 

It was harder, this time, to contain the flinch. Uncle Vernon hated any mention of Hogwarts. At least Dumbledore hadn’t called it by name; Uncle Vernon’s rigid control was liable to snap if he did.

 

When he didn’t receive any response from the larger man and his proffered hand was ignored, Dumbledore continued optimistically, “I see you are too delighted by our presence for words.  No matter, my dear man, we will just pretend that you have kindly invited us into your home.”

 

Harry stepped aside politely, while his uncle stumbled back almost involuntarily, his fear of coming into contact with a full-grown wizard if Dumbledore decided to push past him apparently interfering with his desire to keep them out of the house.

 

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said.

 

Malfoy’s nose wrinkled in disgust, whether at the prospect of entering a Muggle house or entering the house where his nemesis lived Harry didn’t know, but he followed the older wizard inside nevertheless.

 

Harry closed the door behind them, a sense of foreboding edging its way into his emotions. He had just let the son of a Death Eater into the Dursleys’ home; for all he knew, Draco himself could be a Death Eater by now. All Malfoy had to do was kill Aunt Petunia and the blood wards would fall, leaving Harry vulnerable. However unlikely an attack was with Dumbledore around, Harry’s fingers still itched to hold his wand. He didn’t like being forced to rely on someone else for his safety.

 

“Shall we go into the lounge, then?” he heard Dumbledore suggest.

 

Uncle Vernon, it seemed, had found his tongue again. “NO!” He said it with such vehemence that Harry could imagine Dumbledore was rather taken aback. Of course, the older man had no way of knowing what had happened the last time that wizards had been in that room – the Weasleys, quite unintentionally, had practically demolished the entire area.

 

“Kitchen,” Vernon grunted, in a compromise of sorts.  “You interrupted my breakfast and I’m not ruddy well going to let it get cold.”

 

“That’s quite alright, sir,” Dumbledore said amicably and then spoke up louder, “Petunia, Dudley, please feel free to join us down here. You must be hungry, too.”

 

A _boom_ echoed from the upstairs landing – Dudley had likely jumped in surprise at being caught spying.

 

After a minute’s hesitation, Aunt Petunia and her son ventured downstairs, probably assuming there would be safety in numbers and not wanting to leave Uncle Vernon alone with three wizards. Dudley was trembling, though, and stuck close behind his mother. Encounters with magic-folk never did seem to go well for him.

 

Harry hoped, and not for Dudley’s sake, that nothing would happen this time. Uncle Vernon might not have the courage to take on adult wizards, but he felt no qualms about taking it out on Harry.

 

 _Who am I kidding?_ Harry thought dully. _He’s already angry. I’m in trouble no matter what happens._

 

Unless Dumbledore had come to take him away from here.

 

Harry felt a spark of hope light up within him, but he quickly squashed it. Holidays had only started three days ago, and the Professor had said that Harry was supposed to stay with his relatives for at least a few weeks. No, whatever the reason why Dumbledore was here, it wasn’t to come to his rescue.

 

He entered the kitchen, numbness settling over him again.

 

Vernon was already seated at the head of the table and digging into his food. Petunia and Dudley, after a nervous glance toward Dumbledore, followed suit.

 

“Only three places?” Dumbledore questioned with a frown.

 

“Oh, I woke up earlier, so I already ate,” Harry said. It wasn’t stretching the truth too much – he had eaten breakfast, back at Hogwarts. That was sure to keep him going for a while yet.

 

His answer seemed to satisfy Dumbledore, because he nodded and gestured for Harry and Malfoy to sit down at the two spare chairs around the table, and conjured a purple squishy armchair for himself.

 

The Dursleys jumped. Harry stiffened.

 

“What are you waiting for, Harry?” Dumbledore asked him, apparently oblivious to the reaction his blatant use of magic had caused.

 

He realised that he still hadn’t sat down. He wasn’t supposed to sit with the Dursleys when they were eating, unless Uncle Vernon specifically ordered him to.

 

He was torn with indecision, until he caught sight of a slight nod from Aunt Petunia. Relieved to have permission, he took the remaining seat. It put him in uncomfortable close proximity with Malfoy, though, so he soon found himself tensing again and had to remind himself that Malfoy couldn’t do anything with Dumbledore watching. It was somewhat gratifying to notice that Malfoy, too, was sitting rather stiffly.

 

“Well, now that we are all sitting comfortably,” Dumbledore said, although this may have been an overstatement on his part – no one apart from the elderly wizard seemed comfortable at all, “I suppose I should explain why myself and Mister Malfoy are here.” He took Vernon’s stony silence as permission to continue. “Draco needs a place to stay for the summer.”

 

It took a few seconds for these words to sink in. When they did, Harry’s jaw dropped. Surely Dumbledore couldn’t possibly mean-

 

“And this house is, I think, the safest option for him,” Dumbledore said. “I understand you have a spare bedroom. We will, of course, reimburse you for any additional expenditure his presence here may cause-”

 

“Now wait just a moment!” Uncle Vernon’s face was swiftly changing from red to purple. “We’ve already had to take in one of your cast-offs, what makes you think we’d be willing to put up with another one?!”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “Draco’s life is in danger from the very same wizard who wishes to kill your nephew. And this house, as you are well aware, is one of the best protected buildings in the country. By taking Draco in you will be saving an innocent-”

 

“Innocent?” Harry interrupted, unable to stop himself. “Professor, Malfoy is-”

 

“Not his father,” Dumbledore cut in firmly. “He has renounced Voldemort, at great personal risk, and I have promised him protection.”

 

“But, sir, surely there must be another-”

 

“Hey,” Malfoy jumped in, “I’m no happier about this than you are, Potter.” His lips curled into a sneer as he looked around at his surroundings with pointed disgust. “But we don’t have a choice. If I don’t stay here, the Dark Lord will kill me.”

 

“And why should I care?” Harry shot back.

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore admonished quietly. “I know you and Draco are not friends, but you cannot honestly wish to see any harm befall him at Voldemort’s hands.”

 

“Why not?” Harry snapped. “ _He_ tried to attack _me_ only a few days ago, on the way back from Hogwarts!”

 

“A simple, school-yard rivalry...”

 

“He threatened to kill me!” Harry argued, quoting Draco’s words with an inflected accent, “‘ _You’re dead, Potter. I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done to my father._ ’”

 

“He was understandably upset, but I’m sure he didn’t mean it-”

 

“As soon as you leave he’ll try something!” Harry insisted. “This is all probably a plot set up by Voldemort to get one of his followers in here, past the wards-”

 

“No, Harry. I trust Draco-”

 

“Oh, what, like you trust Snape?” Harry didn’t care that his voice was raised, or that he was being rude to the Headmaster. He was sick of Dumbledore’s blind faith in everyone, his refusal to consider that _maybe_ they might be lying to him. “ _Where’s the proof_?”

 

“Scared, are you, Potter?” Malfoy broke in.

 

“Of you? Not likely!” Harry retorted heatedly, even as his hand once again closed on an empty space where his wand should have been. He doubted that Malfoy would be similarly unarmed and he felt at a significant disadvantage, even though technically the other boy was no more allowed to use magic out of school than he was.

 

“Enough!” Dumbledore thundered, a wave of power crashing over them all, silencing the room.

 

“My decision,” he said with a dangerously calm tone, “is final. Draco will be staying here until school resumes on September 1st. If you two,” he fixed Harry and Malfoy with a firm gaze, “cannot get along nicely, you will at least be cordial towards each other. I will remind you also that you are expressly forbidden from using any magic outside Hogwarts.”

 

Harry nodded sullenly. With his wand locked in the cupboard he didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter. Beside him, Malfoy nodded too, but Harry was hardly convinced of his sincerity.

 

“As an added safety precaution, neither of you will be permitted to leave the boundary of this house and its gardens for the duration of the summer.”

 

Harry choked. His occasional walks around the streets of Little Whinging were all the respite he got from the oppressive atmosphere of 4 Privet Drive during the holidays, and now- Then it hit him.

 

“ _All summer?_ ” he repeated, hoping he had heard wrong. Hoping that Dumbledore didn’t mean it. Surely Harry would still be allowed to stay with the Weasleys for the last few weeks before term, like he usually did. Dumbledore couldn’t seriously expect him to stay here the whole-

 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “All summer. I know you were expecting to join Ronald at the Burrow, Harry, but I’m afraid their wards are not powerful enough to withstand a determined assault by Voldemort. Having the two of you there will make it all too much of a tempting target.”

 

Harry fell back against his chair, defeated. “We can’t risk all of their lives.” Ron, Ginny, Mr and Mrs Weasley... No. He couldn’t endanger them. Not simply for the sake of shortening his time with the Dursleys. What were a few more weeks, if it meant his friends were safe?

 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Uncle Vernon said. “This is _my house_. You can’t just waltz in here and demand-”

 

Dumbledore pinned him with a glare. “Do not test my patience, Mr Dursley. As I have explained, there is no other alternative. You _will_ accommodate Draco, we _will_ reimburse you for your trouble, and you _will_ _not_ argue this matter any further!”

 

The silence that followed was almost deafening. No one dared to breathe another word of protest.

 

Dumbledore stood up and with a wave of his wand Vanished the purple armchair. Then he pulled out a small box from one of his pockets, set it on the floor and, with another silent spell, caused it to rapidly grow until it gained the size of a large trunk. Embellished on the side was a Slytherin crest, with the initials ‘D.M.’ emblazoned at its centre. From this, Harry gathered that it was Draco’s school trunk.

 

“I trust you will see to it that Draco settles in comfortably, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Good day, all.”

 

And with those words, he left.

 

ooOOoo

 

Snape paced restlessly in the Headmaster's office, his patience having long since worn thin. If Dumbledore didn't come back soon he was liable to snap and begin breaking apart the inane silver instruments spinning and whirring around him to relieve some of his pent up frustration.

 

The portraits lining the walls, chatting in what he was sure they meant to be inaudible whispers but which actually carried clear across the room, were not helping to improve his mood.

 

"... ooh, he doesn't look very happy, does he?"

 

Snape glowered.

 

"... not at all..."

 

"... mind you, that one never does..."

 

"... hope he doesn't go on a rampage like that Potter boy did a few weeks ago..."

 

"... horrible racket... all Dumbledore's beautiful instruments..."

 

Upon hearing these words, Snape's urge to wreak destruction on the infuriatingly peaceful office vanished abruptly. He was _not_ going to act like some out-of-control hormonal teenager. He would return to what he knew and did best – adopting a deep scowl and a delivering a razor-sharp tongue-lashing when Dumbledore returned.

 

"... should cut the kid some slack... suffering a very difficult loss..."

 

"... poor lad... so young yet, and already been through so much... first the death of his parents..."

 

"... James and Lily..."

 

Snape couldn't take it any longer. "Will you lot be _quiet_!" he thundered, whipping out his wand with every intention to use it if they were idiotic enough to continue talking. A few gags painted into the portraits would be sure to grant him the peace he wanted.

 

He had no interest in feeling sorry for the irritating Potter brat, or listening to a list of his woes. His annoyance had absolutely nothing to do with the mention of a certain red-headed witch. Nothing at all.

 

To his immense relief the portraits fell silent, although many of them shot nasty glares in his direction.

 

Only now he had nothing to distract him from his thoughts and his frustration with Dumbledore began to climb rapidly. The man was insufferable! He knew very well that Severus wanted to speak with him about the rash decision he had made regarding Draco’s welfare, but he had insisted that he deliver the boy to Privet Drive as soon as possible and whatever Snape had to say would have to wait. Which was as an effective way as any to state that he was not to be dissuaded.

 

But Snape was not one to give up so easily, and so here he was, waiting for the infernal wizard to make an appearance. It really shouldn’t be taking this long to force Draco onto the Dursleys – Potter himself had simply been dumped on their doorstep all those years ago, for Merlin’s sake! – and Snape could have sworn that Dumbledore was taking his time just to be infuriating.

 

Time stretched for an eternity before the familiar rumble of the revolving staircase indicated that someone was on their way up to the office.

 

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” a voice announced into the otherwise quiet room. Locating the source of the words, Snape for the first time spotted a miniature gargoyle on the desk which, aside from its size, was an exact replica to the one which guarded the staircase.

 

 _Aha!_ Snape thought triumphantly. _So that’s how he always knows who it is._ The Headmaster’s uncanny ability to greet him by name before he even knocked on the door had always annoyed him. Now he knew the secret and it wasn’t all that spectacular. He should have worked it out years ago.

 

The door swung open and Dumbledore entered to cries of welcome from the portraits. He was smiling. Snape wanted to throttle him.

 

“Finally!” he snapped.

 

Dumbledore walked straight past him to the perch where Fawkes sat, scratching the phoenix under his chin and smoothing the plumage on his back before even acknowledging Snape was there.

 

“Ah, Severus,” he said, turning and feigning an expression of only just having noticed him. “Been here long?”

 

“All morning,” Snape said sharply, “as I’m sure your pet gargoyle has informed you.”

 

Dumbledore glanced from him to the gargoyle on his desk, eyes twinkling merrily. “Well done, my boy. I knew you would get there eventually.”

 

“Humph.” He was not in the mood to be patronised. “What took you so long?”

 

Dumbledore pulled something from the depths of one of his pockets and waved it happily in Snape’s face. “Lemon drops! I was in the Muggle neighbourhood and I thought to myself, what better time to replenish my stock?”

 

Snape eyed him critically, noting the outlandish outfit the Headmaster was wearing. “You went into a Muggle store dressed like _that_?”

 

“These are my best robes!” Dumbledore defended. “They really bring out my eyes, don’t you think?”

 

Snape grunted. Undoubtedly the older wizard had cast a glamour or temporarily transfigured his clothing into more Muggle-appropriate attire for the shopping trip. He was overly fond of playing the part, but Dumbledore was no fool.

 

“Even that does not account for your tardiness,” he pointed out. “So I repeat my previous question.”

 

Dumbledore shrugged innocently. “I know Arabella would have been quite happy to accommodate my use of her fireplace, but I was rather more in the mood for Apparation today.”

 

 _You can’t Apparate or Disapparate inside the perimeters of this school,_ Snape refrained from reminding the man.

 

“So I have enjoyed a nice, leisurely stroll through the forest from our Apparation point,” Dumbledore continued.

 

At last, conclusive proof. Dumbledore _had_ been placed on this Earth for the express purpose of driving one Severus Snape completely insane.

 

“Thank you for finally gracing me with your presence,” Snape growled.

 

“You are most welcome, dear boy!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “Now, what is it you wanted?”

 

“To determine,” Snape snarled, “whether or not you have gone completely _senile_ in your old age!” There were sounds of outrage from the portraits but Snape ignored them, turning the full force of his best glare on Dumbledore. To his annoyance, the wizard seemed neither offended nor cowed.

 

“I dare say I have,” Dumbledore commented mildly. “Which event in particular has led you to this line of inquiry?”

 

“Hm, let me see,” Snape said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “Maybe, seeing you try to pick up and _put on_ the _ring_ containing not only a fragment of the Dark Lord’s soul, but also an extremely powerful _curse_ that would almost certainly have _killed you_ if I had not intervened! _What were you_ THINKING?”

 

“I was not, for a moment...” Dumbledore said softly, his eyes briefly taking on a distant look. “But your stinging hex was quite sufficient to return my common sense.” He rubbed his hand ruefully.

 

“Apparently not! Only a few hours after we destroyed the horcrux, you decided that the safest place for _Draco Malfoy_ to stay for the summer was in _Harry Potter’s_ house!”

 

“I’m certain it is,” Dumbledore said firmly. “I set up those wards myself, using the power of Lily’s love and sacrifice as the foundation for the magic. The result has been the strongest shield currently in existence. The inhabitants of 4 Privet Drive are beyond the reach of anyone who would mean them harm as soon as they enter the boundaries of the property. Any witch or wizard with malicious intent cannot pass through, no matter what curses or hexes they may bring to bear, and even staying in near proximity for any length of time becomes increasingly uncomfortable. While Harry maintains his connection to his aunt and continues to call that place home, not even Voldemort himself can penetrate the wards. Yes, I believe that is the best place for Draco, and I will not change my mind.”

 

“Maybe it is safe from the Dark Lord,” Snape said. “But it is wholly unsuitable for an entirely different reason! Draco and Potter _hate_ each other! The Dark Lord will not have to lift a hand – they will kill one another before the summer is out! At least when they are at Hogwarts their interactions are supervised and they are not forced to be in close proximity for too long. Even then, I have caught them on the verge of a duel on more than one occasion, the most recent not a week past! And now you are making them _live together_?! You must be out of your mind!”

 

“Come, now, Severus, it won’t be that bad...”

 

Snape felt like he was about to explode. “Didn’t you _see_ Draco’s reaction when you first told him of your moronic plan?!”

 

“Yes,” Dumbledore stated calmly. “He ranted and raved, much as you are doing now, but he came to see reason.”

 

“Only because Narcissa was there, begging and pleading him with tears streaming down her face until he could bear it no longer and gave in!”

 

“If he were as opposed to it as you seem to be, no amount of crying on his mother’s part could have swayed him. Besides, if Draco truly disliked Harry enough to hurt or even kill him, as you have suggested, he would not have been able to cross the wards. But he had no trouble.”

 

That was slightly harder to argue against, although Snape strongly suspected that even if Draco didn’t feel such murderous inclinations towards Potter right now, a few days of living with him would almost certainly be enough to alter his temperament. “And what about Potter? I doubt he was any happier about the arrangement than Draco was.”

 

Dumbledore had at least the common decency to look slightly sheepish. “I didn’t give him, or the Dursleys for that matter, a choice. But Harry will respect my decision. He trusts me.”

 

Snape growled, deep in his throat. “Headmaster, this is a very, _very_ bad idea. Five years of solid dislike cannot be-”

 

“Ah,” Dumbledore interrupted with a raised hand, “but this experience might even be for the best. They will have the opportunity to get past their differences, to get to know each other properly, perhaps even to become friends...”

 

And suddenly Snape understood what exactly Dumbledore was trying to do. “You _are_ an old fool,” he hissed. “Have you forgotten so quickly what a fiasco it was trying to get me to teach Potter Occlumency? You thought we, too, could ‘get past our differences’. Your attempt with Draco will have no more success and it could have equally dire consequences!”

 

Dumbledore frowned at him, disappointment showing clearly on his face. “Harry was not entirely to blame. If you had-”

 

“That is not my point,” Snape cut across him sharply. “Potter and Draco have no more love for each other than Potter and myself. Forcing them to live in the same house for two months can only end in disaster.”

 

“I think they may surprise you. Either way, the decision has been made. You may not like it, but it is done and I will hear no further arguments from you.” Dumbledore’s voice was hard. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” Snape muttered.

 

“Good.” The twinkle returned to those blue eyes and Dumbledore’s face crinkled into a smile. “Now, this might cheer you up a bit, Severus. I have an offer for you that I think you are going to like.”

 

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” His tone made it clear that if this offer was the ‘honour’ of checking up on Draco and Potter during the holidays, Dumbledore was going to have a very angry and uncooperative Potions master on his hands.

 

“With Dolores Umbridge gone, we once again find ourselves without a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Dumbledore explained. “How would you like the post?”

 

Against his will, Snape felt excitement flare up within him and a smile almost broke out on his face. He halted the expression just in time. “What of Potions?” he asked as calmly as he could. “I cannot teach both.”

 

Dumbledore grinned at him. “No, of course not, that would be quite an unfair work load for you. I was thinking of asking Horace Slughorn – you remember him? He taught you, I believe. I plan to ask him to return to Hogwarts. I think I can persuade him without too much trouble.”

 

“Slughorn,” Snape mused. “Yes, he would be accept-”

 

He stopped. He forced himself to think logically about this, without allowing emotion to get in the way. He had wanted the DADA job ever since he started out teaching and it had been a source of constant frustration to him that Dumbledore had consistently given the post to someone else. Often times, the new DADA teacher had been at best completely incompetent and at worst evil or possessed. Mad-Eye Moody might have been half decent, if he hadn’t been replaced by a Death Eater. In fact, the werewolf might well have been the least harmful of the lot, even if Snape was loath to admit it.

 

And... Potter had displayed the highest level of competency in Defence when Lupin was teaching. He had been someone the Potter brat felt he could trust, even like, and he had learned more in that year than any year previously or since.

 

Snape would have been quite happy not to care about Potter’s progress in the class. But he was the Chosen One. The only person who, according to prophecy, had the ‘power to vanquish the Dark Lord’. With Voldemort growing in strength with every passing day, it was vital that Potter be adequately prepared to fight him when the time came.

 

And hadn’t Snape just pointed out how disastrous his attempts to teach Potter Occlumency had been?

 

If Snape was brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that Potter’s poor showing in Potions might also have to do with having him for a teacher. There was no trust between them. No fondness. Not even respect. Just pure and unadulterated dislike.

 

Snape could accept the DADA position. But if he did Potter and other students like him would not learn as well as they could. Or should. These were dangerous times and children in particular were the most vulnerable. He wanted to teach them how to defend themselves, but many would not or could not learn from him adequately enough.

 

He had no right. It would be selfish and stupid of him to accept the offer. He had just accused Dumbledore of making rash and irresponsible decisions – he could not do the same. He would not.

 

“No.”

 

Dumbledore looked startled. “Why not? Horace was a fine teacher in his day-”

 

“No,” Snape repeated. “It is nothing to do with Slughorn and everything to do with me. I do not accept. I will remain in my Potions position and you will find someone else to be the Defence teacher.”

 

For a time, Dumbledore actually seemed at a loss for words. “But-but why? Severus, every year for fifteen years you have applied for this position and now when I hand it to you on a silver platter-”

 

“My answer is no,” Snape reiterated firmly. “I am not the right person for it.” When he sensed that Dumbledore was not going to accept any less than a proper explanation he buried his pride and said, “Potter will not learn from me. Some of the other children, particularly the Gryffindors, will have similar difficulties. This is not the time for me to put my personal preferences above the safety of the students. They need someone who is not only competent, but experienced, trustworthy and-” he almost choked “-likeable.”

 

Dumbledore stared at him. His expression was one of dumfounded amazement, pride and deep respect. Snape almost blushed at the sight.

 

Thankfully, the older wizard didn’t say anything gushy. “Very well, Severus. Who would you recommend, then?”

 

Snape thought about it for a moment. He couldn’t bring himself to suggest Lupin and he thought perhaps the parents would object anyway. They were worried enough as it was. “An Auror,” he said finally. “Someone not too high up in the ranks, nor irreplaceable in skill and experience. Their job is more important now than ever, but these students will soon be out facing the world and they need to be taught properly.” He nodded to himself. “Someone trained recently, but with enough field experience to be able to impart valuable tips and advice. Of course, their loyalty must be unquestionable as well.”

 

“Of course,” Dumbledore echoed, quietly enough not to interrupt Snape’s train of thought.

 

An individual who fit the requirements floated to the top of Snape’s mind. “I think...” he said slowly, “Nymphadora Tonks. She is a bit clumsy, but she is earnest, graduated from Auror training two years ago, has some experience, is a member of the Order...” He wrinkled his nose slightly. “And from the reactions of Potter and the Weasleys, the students should like her well enough. She seems to be somewhat fond of the werewolf too – though I cannot fathom why – so I suppose if she needs it he can provide her with some assistance.”

 

Dumbledore clapped his hands together once, a delighted smile tugging at his lips. “I agree with you, Severus. She is a wonderful choice. I will ask her as soon as I get the opportunity.”

 

Snape nodded and withdrew from the office.

 

 _I can’t believe I just did that,_ he thought incredulously. _You had better be grateful for this, Potter._

 

ooOOoo


	4. Living Conditions

 

“Well, Potter?” Malfoy said, in his characteristic slow drawl. “Are you going to give me the two knut tour or what?”

 

Harry still sat, his hands balled into fists under the table. He wanted to yell and scream and send hexes bouncing off all the walls. Over the years Dumbledore had asked a hell of a lot from him and he had never complained – well, at least not as much as he could have – but _this_ was just taking things too far. Malfoy. And the Dursleys. Together. In Privet Drive. _All summer_. It wasn’t fair!

 

“Not that there’s much to see,” Malfoy continued snidely. “The whole house could probably fit into my dining hall back home.”

 

“No one asked you to come here,” Harry snapped irritably. “And before you decide you’re too good for it, just think about what Voldemort’s going to do to you if you leave. He’ll kill you straight off if you’re lucky. But, speaking from past experience, I reckon he’ll Crucio you a couple of times first. Maybe it’ll send you mad. You should try it and find out– it’d give me a laugh.”

 

Harry felt a brief spark of vindication when he saw terror flash across Malfoy’s face. “I’m not going anywhere, Potter,” the blonde said, trying to sound haughty about it. “So you better get used to the idea.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

Harry stood up from the table. A quick glance at the Dursleys told him three things. One, they hadn’t finished eating yet, so he still had some time before he would have to clean up the dining and kitchen area. Two, Uncle Vernon was still furious, but he was waiting until he had Harry alone before he would say or do anything. Three, his relatives were not going to object to him showing Malfoy around, but they would have words to say to him later.

 

He was looking forward to it. Not.

 

“Come on, then,” he said irritably. “And bring your trunk – your room is upstairs.”

 

Malfoy looked scandalised. “Me? Carry that huge thing? You’ve got to be kidding!”

 

Harry gave him a flat look. “I’m not kidding. It’s your own fault for bringing so much stuff if it’s heavy.”

 

“I won’t do it,” Malfoy said stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest. “Do you think I want to end up looking like you?”

 

“Wh-” Oh. He’d said he got the black eye and broken nose from tripping while lugging his trunk into the house. “Oh, of course. It’d be embarrassing for you to reveal that you’re even more of a klutz than I am, wouldn’t it?”

 

Malfoy glared at him, but the bait had been laid too well. “I’ll do it,” he said sharply. “Knowing you, my belongings would probably end up strewn and shattered all over the stairs if I let you try.”

 

Harry smirked. “That’d be a cryin’ shame.”

 

He led the way out of the kitchen and into the hall, not bothering to look behind to see if Malfoy followed. He could tell from the grunts of effort that the blonde was making very slow progress.

 

“With any luck the summer will be over by the time you reach the top of the stairs,” Harry remarked.

 

Malfoy let out a pained exclamation and Harry turned to see that he had dropped his trunk on his foot. “How do you stupid Muggles survive without house elves?” Draco spat out as he bent to seize the handle again.

 

Harry worked to contain a wince and just hoped that Uncle Vernon hadn’t heard. “We can’t _all_ be useless lumps like you, Malfoy.”

 

From the kitchen, Harry thought he could make out the sound of Aunt Petunia complaining, “He’s going to drag scratches all the way down my pristine floors!”

 

Harry swallowed and quickly moved to grab the opposite handle of the trunk. “Lift on three,” he ordered, trying not to think about the fact that he was helping _Malfoy_ of all people. “One. Two. Three.”

 

They hoisted it into the air together, Harry’s ribs screaming at the strain. _Don’t gasp,_ he instructed his body silently. _Don’t flinch. Malfoy will notice and he’ll laugh. Don’t let him notice._

 

Each inhalation hurt, but Harry forced himself to keep his breathing regular. In and out. In and out. _Don’t gasp_. In and out. _Don’t flinch_. In and out. _Don’t drop it._

 

He wasn’t sure how exactly, but they made it up the stairs. “Third door down the hall,” Harry grunted out.

 

Malfoy obeyed without question – his face was red and he was breathing heavily. Harry supposed that house elves, levitation charms and playing no other sport aside from Quidditch meant that this was the most physical exertion that Malfoy had ever experienced in his life. It was almost funny.

 

With immense relief, Harry and Malfoy entered the guest bedroom and were able to set the excessively heavy trunk down at last.

 

Malfoy didn’t thank him for his help, but Harry was concentrating too hard on stopping himself from wrapping his arms tightly around his ribs to notice.

 

Once he had finally recovered, Malfoy straightened and eyed his surroundings critically.

 

“Tiny and horribly plain,” he declared.

 

Harry experienced a flash of irritation. The room was twice the size of his own, with far nicer furnishings, and it didn’t have bars on the window, locks on the outside of the door or a cat flap. Harry figured that the blonde should count himself lucky.

 

“Too bad,” he said. “You can get comfortable later, but don’t take anything overly-” he nearly choked, instinct screaming at him not to say the next word but logic telling him that he couldn’t very well say ‘freakish’ instead, as the Dursleys would prefer “-magical out of your trunk.” He scrambled for an acceptable explanation. “This is a Muggle house. The wards will go berserk if you do.”

 

He waited with bated breath, but Malfoy just muttered, “Fine.”

 

Harry relaxed a little. “I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

 

Malfoy followed him out into the hallway and as they walked along Harry pointed to each of the different doors. “That one’s my cousin’s room. The master bedroom, where my Aunt and Uncle sleep. And that one there is the bathroom.”

 

“What about the room at the other end?” Malfoy asked suspiciously.

 

Harry had hoped he wouldn’t notice the omission. So much for that.

 

“My bedroom,” he answered sullenly.

 

Malfoy’s face lit up, and he hurried back down the hall with Harry trailing after him reluctantly. “I’ve _got_ to see this. The bedroom of the Boy-Who-Lived. Bet you it’s covered with all your own newspaper clippings...” He skidded to a stop, confusion overriding everything else for a moment. “Potter, why are there so many locks on your door?”

 

Harry had seen this question coming. “Extra protection,” he said. “Just in case.”

 

Malfoy snorted. “Paranoid, much? And you _do_ know that a wizard could get through them easily with a simple _Alohomora_ , right? Or haven’t you learned about that first-year spell yet?”

 

Harry bristled defensively, even though the locks were there for an entirely different reason. “Yeah I have, but it’d take time for someone to undo each one. The warning and the few extra seconds could make all the difference.”

 

“Right...” Malfoy drawled. His expression indicated that he thought Harry was stupid – but that was nothing new – and not that he didn’t believe the explanation. Harry figured it was as much as he could hope for.

 

“And the cat flap?” Draco continued, looking around at ground level as if expecting to see an animal of some kind wandering around. “Do you have a pet kneazle or something?”

 

 _Yeah, right,_ Harry thought sarcastically. Like Aunt Petunia would ever permit something like a cat or dog to live in her house. Harry was quite close enough in the Dursleys’ opinion. “We used to,” he said out loud. “But it died.”

 

Malfoy snickered.  “You seem to kill everything you touch, don’t you, Potter?”

 

Hatred and anger flared up within him like a towering inferno. His fist almost lashed out to punch that smug grin off Malfoy’s face.

 

But then a flood of grief swept over him, even more powerful than his rage had been. _Sirius..._

 

His hand dropped limply to his side.

 

Malfoy was right and punching him wasn’t going to change anything. Sirius was gone. Dead. Just like Cedric. And his parents. What point was there in denying it?

 

“Yeah,” he said dispassionately. “So don’t get too close.”

 

Malfoy’s lip curled. “Why would I want to, Potter?”

 

He had a point, there, Harry noted dully, as the blonde twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

 

“What the hell?” Malfoy mumbled to himself. The sight before him clearly wasn’t what he had expected.

 

Harry tried to see the room from the other boy’s perspective, so he could explain away any oddities. The bars on the window, reinstalled shortly before Harry came back from Hogwarts, caught his eyes first. “The bars are an extra safety measure, too,” he said. “Trying to blast or cut through them would cause a lot of noise, giving me plenty of warning before the attackers actually got in.”

 

“Paranoid,” Malfoy muttered.

 

“I’m not here much,” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard, “so it makes sense for me to have the smallest bedroom. During the school year, they use it as a storage room, too...” He gestured vaguely at the shelves of Dudley’s broken toys, and shrugged. “I don’t mind. I only really use this room to sleep in.”

 

Malfoy gave a quiet snort of disbelief. “On _those_?” He pointed in disgust at the ragged and faded bed linen.

 

Ah. “They’re too comfortable to exchange for newer ones,” Harry said.

 

“Right...”

 

Harry thought he might have heard Malfoy say under his breath, “Crazy Gryffindors,” but he couldn’t summon the energy to care.

 

“Seen enough?” he said finally. “You already know where the kitchen and dining room are downstairs, and the lounge room isn’t really very difficult to work out. I doubt you’ll need to use the laundry. Okay?”

 

“That was a pathetic tour, Potter,” Malfoy said, but he exited Harry’s room and returned to his own, which had been the desired result. Harry hoped that he would stay there, at least for a while.

 

In the meantime, Harry had to go downstairs and face Uncle Vernon.

 

A part of him was tempted to drag his feet, taking as long as possible to return to the kitchen. He knew, however, that with every minute that passed his uncle’s anger would only increase and with it the level of pain Harry was likely to be in once Vernon was finished with him. He decided not to delay any more than he already had.

 

He entered the dining room to discover that the Dursleys had long since finished eating and Dudley had moved to the lounge room to watch his favourite television program. His aunt and uncle were still sitting at the table, but when Aunt Petunia caught sight of him in the doorway she pursed her lips, glanced sideways at her husband and quietly withdrew.

 

Harry watched her leave, wondering if he should be feeling some sense of betrayal. Uncle Vernon was never as aggressive towards him when she was in the room and she knew it. Maybe she was angry with him, too.

 

 _It’s not my fault,_ he wanted to say. _I didn’t ask for this to happen._

 

But what point was there in arguing? To the Dursleys, anything unusual, unexpected or unpleasant that happened to them was automatically his fault. Especially if it had something to do with magic.

 

Perhaps, indirectly, he _was_ responsible. After all, if he hadn’t survived the same killing curse that had killed his parents he would never have been dumped here to live with them. There would be no protective wards and no reason for wizards, Light or Dark alike, to come anywhere near them. They would be able to live peaceful, normal lives.

 

Harry’s shoulders slumped. His aunt and uncle were probably thinking along the same lines. No wonder they were angry with him. He was nothing but a nuisance and now they were landed with yet another unwanted burden in the form of Draco Malfoy.

 

He was beginning to realise that he was lucky that Uncle Vernon refrained from killing him. If Harry was dead, all of the Dursleys troubles would be over and the thought had likely occurred to them more than once. Uncle Vernon had to have remarkable self-control. Harry was almost grateful.

 

“So,” Uncle Vernon said. He pushed back his chair – although due to his weight the table moved just as much – and stood up. “ _So,_ ” he repeated. His voice was low and menacing, successfully conveying his anger without letting the sound carry up the stairs. “You called him, did you? Thought that having one of your freak friends here would make us let you off all your chores and stop us from punishing you when you deserve it?”

 

“He’s _not_ my friend,” Harry corrected vehemently, insulted by the very idea. _Him_? Friends with _Malfoy_? Never in a million years. “In fact, he might even hate me more than you do. Trust me; he’d be delighted to find out about your treatment of me.”

 

Uncle Vernon paused, an odd, calculating look crossing his features. “You don’t want him to know?”

 

Harry gulped and then slowly shook his head, even though he knew that his uncle might very well let it slip to Malfoy now that he knew it was exactly the opposite of what Harry wanted.

 

For a brief second Uncle Vernon looked thrilled, but the expression vanished so fast that Harry was sure he must have imagined it.

 

“But he’ll get the same,” Vernon said. “With another person in the house there will be even more work to be done than before and I expect him to pull his weight around here just like you do. And I won’t stand for any funny business from him. If he puts so much as a toe out of line, he’ll have to be punished.”

 

“No!” Harry blurted, panicked. Draco would run complaining to Dumbledore the instant Uncle Vernon tried anything, and then Dumbledore would be disappointed in Harry for failing to protect a guest in his house. Even worse, Draco would know the truth and he would tell everyone and Harry would die of humiliation. “I’ll take responsibility for him,” he offered suddenly, hoping against hope that his uncle would agree.

 

“You’ll do all his chores?” Vernon asked shrewdly. “And you’ll make sure he obeys the rules? You’ll accept punishment in his place if he doesn’t?”

 

Harry nodded frantically.

 

“Okay, then. As long as you hold to your word, we’ll keep your behaviour issues between us. The other little freak will know nothing of it.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened. He hadn’t actually expected his uncle to concede and now he couldn’t believe his luck. “Thank you!”

 

Vernon gave a non-committal grunt. “You know you still have punishment coming for this morning,” he said.

 

Harry’s spirits dropped, but he wasn’t about to complain.

 

“Breakfast was cold,” Uncle Vernon began to list. “One of Dudley’s sausages was singed at the ends. You didn’t make the coffee.  You failed to turn away the _freaks_ at the door before they could invade our home! You allowed one of them to take up residence the room that is supposed to be reserved for _real_ guests, like Marge!”

 

Harry cast his eyes downwards. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Apologies don’t teach anyone anything, Boy,” Uncle Vernon snarled, stepping around the table. “You will never learn if you aren’t punished and you should be bloody grateful that I take the time and effort to teach you!”

 

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said tonelessly. “Thank you, Uncle Vernon.”

 

“Remove your shirt. Face the wall.”

 

As Harry turned to do as instructed he heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being unbuckled and pulled free.

 

His heart fluttered with terror, his muscles tensed, every instinct within him told him to run.

 

He didn’t, though. He pulled the over-large shirt over his head and placed it aside, then stepped up to the wall. He braced himself against it with flat palms, and waited.

 

 _Don’t flinch,_ he told himself _. Don’t make a sound. Malfoy mustn’t hear. He can’t know._

 

A swish of movement in the air. A sharp _crack_. A line of fire streaked across his back.

 

_Don’t yell out._

 

Swish. _Crack_. Agony flared as leather bit into flesh.

 

_Don’t make a sound._

 

The blow was harder than it had ever been before. Uncle Vernon must have taken a page from Dudley’s book and worked out, transforming some of his fat into muscle.

 

_You’ve had worse. Crucio is worse._

 

The end of the belt licked around his torso, biting into the dark bruising along his ribcage before tearing away.

 

_Don’t look at the blood._

 

The buckle end hit this time, gouging deep.

 

_Don’t scream._

 

The blows fell faster, heavier.

 

_Don’t make a sound._

 

ooOOoo


	5. The Peculiarities of Muggledom

The Muggle world was ridiculous, Draco decided.

 

On the bedside table, for example, was a small object that _looked_ like a clock – but instead of providing useful information such as the location of each member of the household and what they should be doing at any given time, it had only two small, unlabelled hands and a ring of numbers. What was the point of that? And how was Draco supposed to know when lunch would be? He might have to ask Potter; his nose wrinkled at the very thought.

 

Then there was the window. Apparently Muggles had yet to realise that the purpose of such things was to provide a nice view and plenty of light, because when he looked at it all he could see was the boring street with its uniform houses under a dull grey sky. After a few minutes of fruitless searching he had determined that there were no controls to change the settings to a visage more pleasant. Another example of Muggle stupidity.

 

When he visited the bathroom, he noticed that the mirror didn’t even talk to him to remark on his appearance. Of course, he was sharp and presentable at all times, but he appreciated having a mirror tell him so regardless.

 

Come to think of it, though, even if mirrors _could_ be enchanted in the Muggle world, Potter could hardly have expected compliments from one. His hair, unlike Draco’s own perfectly smoothed back blonde locks, seemed to be in a perpetual state of untidiness, with strands sticking up in all directions. His face, marred already by the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, was now unsightly due to Potter’s clumsiness. The glasses, evidently as broken by the doorknob as Potter’s nose was, instead of being replaced were wrapped with tape and exacerbated Potter’s entirely hopeless appearance. Even Potter’s clothes were a mess – at first, Draco had thought that it was simply strange Muggle fashion, but the other Muggles of the house didn’t wear attire which looked completely worn out and four times too big for them.

 

In short, Draco’s mirror at home – _any_ wizarding mirror – would have an apoplectic fit at seeing Potter in such a state.

 

Draco, on the other hand, couldn’t really care less. It provided some good ammunition for insults, he supposed, but aside from that it didn’t affect _him_ if Potter wanted to go around looking like a slovenly street slob.

 

With a last glance at his reflection and after gliding a hand unnecessarily over his hair to ensure it stayed in place, Draco left the bathroom in search of food. He had decided that he didn’t care when lunch was – he was hungry now. It was holidays, and he should be able to eat whenever he wanted to.

 

Upon descending the staircase, Draco became aware of a strange combination of noises coming from the room he assumed to be the lounge – even though Potter had neglected to point it out to him properly during his pathetic approximation of a ‘tour’. Explosions, weird popping sounds, yelling, running footsteps... Except they were far quieter than they should be if occurring in a room so close by. Draco couldn’t for the life of him work out what could be causing the ruckus, so he had to investigate.

 

He was almost disappointed to find that the room was empty save for Potter’s enormous cousin, who was staring, transfixed, at a box. The box was tucked away in the corner and the side that faced outward into the room looked somewhat like a large, framed photograph. It was brightly coloured and figures moved across it rapidly. The yelling seemed to come from them, but they were absorbed in the goings on in the photo and seemed oblivious to the fact that they had an audience. Moving closer, he could see that some of them waved small, bent metal rods that flashed and popped occasionally. Each time this happened, one of the other figures seemed to collapse as though they had been hit by a curse.

 

It was all very odd.

 

“What kind of photo is that?” Draco asked aloud. He couldn’t imagine what the event captured by the photographer even was, though he suspected it was a fight of some kind.

 

The fat boy – Dudley, Draco thought his name was – jerked and twisted his head around to stare at him. “What are _you_ doing in here?”

 

Draco lifted a delicate eyebrow. “I live here now, remember?” He was beginning to get the impression that Potter’s cousin was as stupid as he looked. _Must run in the genes_ , Draco mused. “Or did you miss that part of the conversation?”

 

Dudley turned red. “Potter lives here, too, and _he_ doesn’t-” His mouth clamped shut abruptly, as though he had said something he wasn’t supposed to. “What do you want?”

 

“I want,” Draco drawled, slowly enough that even an oaf like this boy should be able to understand, “to know what that is.” He pointed. “It’s unlike any photo I’ve ever seen.”

 

Dudley looked where he was pointing and then turned back to him with an expression suggesting he thought Draco was about as intelligent as a flobberworm. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

 

“That’s not a photo,” Dudley said. “It’s a television.” His gaze flittered around the room nervously and then he gestured towards the mantelpiece. “ _Those_ are photos.”

 

Draco eyed the small frames indicated. “But the images don’t move,” he pointed out. It was like they were frozen – completely unnatural.

 

“They’re photos! Of course they don’t move!” Dudley exclaimed. “Pictures that move are called _movies._ Like the one I’m watching now.” He flicked a hand back towards the box and narrowed his piggy little eyes. “Which _you_ interrupted.”

 

The Muggle was being far more hostile than the situation called for, in Draco’s opinion. Potter must have told his relatives all sorts of tales about him and, naturally, they had taken his side. Of course, Draco had no desire for the stupid group of Muggles to like him, so that fact that Potter had taken measures to make sure they wouldn’t didn’t bother him in the slightest.

 

“I’m sure you’ll get over it,” he said dismissively.

 

The rumbling of his stomach reminded Draco why he had come downstairs in the first place, so he left Potter’s cousin to his strange moo-vee and made for the kitchen.

 

He stopped short in the doorway.

 

“Potter, what in Salazar’s name are you doing?”

 

Potter whirled around at his words, a wild look appearing fleetingly in his eyes before vanishing as if it were never there. Maybe it hadn’t been.

 

He stood at the kitchen bench, a knife in one hand and a half-buttered piece of bread in the other. Spread out in front of him was an assortment of different food items – a loaf of bread, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber, cheese, sliced meat and a mixture of sauces including tomato, mayonnaise and mustard.

 

“Making toasted sandwiches, Malfoy,” Potter replied, in a pointing-out-the-obvious sort of tone. “What does it look like?”

 

Draco scowled at the insinuation. “I can see _that_ , Potter. Why are _you_ doing it, though? In the absence of house elves, I thought cooking was supposed to be done by women.”

 

Potter bristled. “I happen to like cooking. I don’t get a chance to while I’m at school, so I make the most of it during the holidays.”

 

Draco let the disbelief show on his face. “And your family hasn’t died of food poisoning yet? It’s a miracle.”

 

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Potter growled, his fist clenched tight around the butter knife as though it were a wand he could use to hex him and he was trying to resist the temptation. “If you want to eat this summer you’ll have to put up with whatever I make and I might very well _decide_ to food poison you if you get on my nerves too much.”

 

Draco snorted at the feeble threat. If Potter was a Slytherin there might have been some credibility behind it, but he was a Gryffindor. If Potter ever did get frustrated enough to try anything, there would be no subtlety to his actions.  “You wouldn’t dare.”

 

Potter ignored him, turning back to the bench and continuing his task.

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter,” he drawled, “don’t ask me how you managed it – even with the training I get from Crabbe and Goyle, I still have trouble comprehending small minds – but you have tomato sauce on your back.”

 

Potter jerked. He twisted around and pulled at the loose clothing so he could view the stain. At the sight of it, his face paled.

 

“Don’t worry,” Draco smirked, “That shirt was a write-off even before you got sauce all over it.”

 

To his surprise, his comment elicited a quiet laugh from the other boy instead of the angry retort he anticipated.

 

"True enough," Potter said, releasing the fabric and readjusting it to sit properly around his frame again. "But what you're wearing isn't much better."

 

Draco looked down at his clothes in surprise, half expecting to see himself wearing a set of Weasley's robes or a set of his own covered in a ghastly stain. They were, however, in perfect condition, as usual.

 

"What are you talking about?" he grumbled. "These were specially tailored for me by Madam Malkin six months ago and they were cleaned and pressed only yesterday! There's nothing wrong with them."

 

Potter had the nerve to quirk a small smile at him. "Except for the fact that they're _robes_ ," he said. "A bit out of place in a Muggle house smack bam in the middle of a Muggle neighbourhood, don't you think?"

 

Draco felt his ears turn red. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

 

“Just take off the outer layer,” Potter suggested. “The t-shirt and shorts you wear underneath will be fine.”

 

“But I’ll only be half-dressed!” Draco protested, unconsciously tugging his robes tighter around himself.

 

Potter folded his arms. “Fine, do what you like. But Dudley thinks you look like you’re wearing a dress.”

 

His first thought was that the robes he was wearing were a far cry from the dress robes he would don for a formal occasion, and that should have been obvious to anyone – except the Weasleys, perhaps, considering that his current attire would beat Ron’s approximation of ‘dress robes’ for the Yule Ball hands down. Then he remembered that Potter was speaking in Muggle context and he suddenly realised that a dress was a garment worn by Muggle women.

 

His cheeks heated and he swiftly pulled the robes off, bunching them and tucking them under his arm to be taken back to his room later.  It felt weird not having fabric swirling around his feet, but he supposed he would have to get used to it.

 

Potter smirked. “Much better. You look just like a Muggle now.”

 

Draco scowled at him. “That’s not a compliment.”

 

Potter turned his back to him again, resuming the construction of sandwiches. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

 

His scowl deepened, but no retort came easily to mind, so he decided to change the topic. “I’m hungry.”

 

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t interrupted me these would be cooked by now.” Potter’s hands moved with a smooth, practiced efficiency as he sliced salad, buttered bread, layered ingredients and slipped the sandwiches into a strange Muggle contraption. “Go back to your room,” he continued, “and I’ll bring you some up when it’s ready.”

 

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Your family doesn’t eat together at lunch?”

 

Potter’s movements paused for a moment. “I didn’t think you would want to eat with them. A bit beneath you, isn’t it?”

 

When he thought about it, Potter was actually right. It was bad enough that Draco had to live in a house with Muggles – he didn’t want to associate with them any more than was absolutely necessary. Of course, Potter was probably thinking more along the lines of not having to associate with _him_ , but it suited Draco either way so he didn’t argue.

 

As he left the room, he threw over his shoulder, “Make it quick.”

 

Potter didn’t reply.

 

ooOOoo

 

“What is taking so bloody long, boy?”

 

Harry tensed as his uncle stomped heavily into the kitchen. He’d known it was a bad idea to get caught up in talking to Malfoy, but if he didn’t make sure that the idiot stopped wearing robes around the Dursleys and ate separately to them he would be in even worse trouble.

 

“They’re ready now, Uncle Vernon.” He gestured to a plate laden with sandwiches.

 

The large man snatched one up and shoved it into his mouth. “Why wasn’t it ready ten minutes ago?”

 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. There was no point in explaining.

 

Vernon’s face darkened and he seized Harry’s wrist. “It shouldn’t be that difficult, boy,” he snarled. “You make them, and you stick them in the sandwich maker.” He tugged Harry forward and without warning shoved his hand onto the heated appliance and slammed the lid closed. “Like _this_!”

 

Harry had to clamp his teeth down hard on his lip to prevent himself from crying out. He instinctively tried to jerk away from the searing pain, but his wrist was held fast. Vernon gave a feral grin at his efforts and Harry forced himself to stop struggling. He didn’t want to give his uncle the satisfaction.

 

Seconds seemed to pass like hours and by the time Vernon released him Harry had bitten his lip clean through. He tried to concentrate on the blood dripping down his chin instead of the agony radiating from his cracked and blistered hand as he withdrew it from the sandwich maker.

 

“Understand, boy?”

 

Harry gingerly pulled his lip out from between his teeth to answer and immediately had to suppress the urge to whimper. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

 

Vernon grunted and carelessly tossed two of the sandwiches onto a plate. “You and the other freak can share those.” He turned to leave, but added as an afterthought, “And don’t forget to write your letters today. I expect to read them before they’re sent and if there’s anything I don’t like...” He left the threat hanging in the air, intermingled with the smell of burned flesh.

 

As his uncle exited, taking the majority of the sandwiches with him, Harry stared at the two allocated to himself and Malfoy. It wasn’t even really enough to feed one person. The growling of his stomach, which had been relegated to the back of his mind for the past few days, suddenly increased in intensity, demanding attention. His gaze was captivated by the sandwiches; he imagined taking just one bite...

 

He wrenched his eyes away and resolutely began cleaning up the kitchen, taking care to use his right hand as little as possible. If Malfoy didn’t get at least two sandwiches he would still be hungry and he would want to know why he couldn’t have more. Harry wasn’t about to do anything that could make Malfoy suspicious. He was just going to have to go without. Again.

 

_Damn you, Malfoy,_ he thought angrily, as he once again shoved his hunger to the back of his mind.

 

He did risk taking the crust left over from the loaf of bread and slipping it into his pocket, though, to give to Hedwig. She didn’t deserve to starve with him. Hopefully she would be able to eat more when she was let out to carry his letters.

 

He sighed and picked up Malfoy’s plate, giving the kitchen one last glance over to make sure it was spotless. Even one thing out of place was enough to incur Aunt Petunia’s wrath and, even though she wasn’t usually as aggressive as her husband in doling out punishment, a frying pan to the head was nothing to laugh about.

 

Once he was satisfied that not even his perfectionist aunt could find anything wrong with it, Harry made his way upstairs to the guest room.

 

“Here,” he said unceremoniously, shoving the plate into Malfoy’s hands. “Not poisoned, for now.”

 

The blonde’s lip curled. “So generous, Potter.”

 

_You have no idea._

 

Harry turned to leave, but Malfoy called him back. His expression was caught somewhere between a smile and a frown.

 

“Potter, your lip is bleeding.”

 

Inwardly he cursed himself for not cleaning it up beforehand. “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he said sarcastically. Without thinking, he lifted a hand to finger the small wound – his injured hand.

 

Malfoy gasped, and Harry jerked his hand away to hide it behind his back, but it was too late. “What the hell, Potter?”

 

His internal cursing became more colourful. “I accidentally burned my hand,” he ground out, “and I bit my lip because it hurt, okay?”

 

Grey eyes widened incredulously. “Merlin, Potter, you’re a danger to yourself! Not even Longbottom is as clumsy as you.”

 

Harry clenched his good hand, fingernails digging into his palms, in an attempt to stay calm. “Eat,” he said and fled to his own room before he was tempted to say anything else.

 

The gentle click of the door closing was taken by Harry’s body as permission to suddenly bombard him with all the aches and pains that he had been trying so hard to ignore. His hand, his ribs, the welts, his broken nose, the innumerable bruises...

 

He gasped and leaned heavily against the door for support. It wasn’t enough. He found himself slumping to the floor and couldn’t prevent it.

 

_Small breaths,_ he reminded himself desperately, as each inhalation was accompanied by the feeling of being stabbed in the chest with a knife. _Come on, you can do it. Small breaths._

But another part of him, the part that wanted to scream and cry, whispered differently. _I can’t. I can’t do this. It hurts, god, it hurts so much, and I’ve only been back for three days. I can’t do this anymore..._

 

He knocked his head against the hard wood behind him. _Stop it!_

 

Seizing his lip between his teeth again, Harry shoved the rest of the pain into a dark corner of his awareness and climbed to his feet. Sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to help anything. He was named in prophecy as the one with ‘the power to vanquish the Dark Lord’ and as such he had a responsibility to the wizarding world to get a grip. If he couldn’t handle this, then how could he be relied upon to lead the fight against Voldemort?

 

Resolve firmly back in place, Harry moved across the room and knelt down beside the loose floorboard. He wiggled it open and retrieved the medical kit and canteen of water he had hidden there a few years ago. He was sure that Aunt Petunia noticed when the supplies went missing the first time and when he periodically restocked, but she had never said anything about it. Harry supposed he should be grateful but then again, she never said anything when Vernon or Dudley was laying into him either.

 

He bit down harder and used his uninjured hand to pull his shirt off over his head. The fabric had stuck in places and the rough weave dragging over his burn hurt even worse, but he was in control now and he didn’t so much as wince.

 

Deciding to deal with the burn first, Harry poured some of the water into a small bowl and slowly eased his hand into it. The cool liquid dampened the flames somewhat and he luxuriated in the sensation for a few minutes. Afterward, he withdrew his hand and felt the uncomfortable heat return as he let it dry. Aloe cream came next and he spread it gingerly over the reddened skin, disregarding the sting when it rubbed into the cracks. Finally, he wrapped a bandage around the hand and tied it off with an expert twist.

 

_Guess I’ll be using my left hand for a while,_ Harry thought wryly as he examined his work. It looked like the hand had been mummified, since he had wrapped the fingers too. Of course, even though he was naturally right-handed, the injuries to his right hand and arm that he had received over the years, courtesy of his uncle and other parties, meant that he was almost as equally competent in using his left. Ron and Hermione wouldn’t even notice the difference in his handwriting.

 

Which reminded him. Uncle Vernon expected him to write those letters, so he had better finish up here quickly.

 

He dipped a cloth in the bowl of water and turned his attention to his torso.

 

At the sight of deep, mottled bruising arcing over his chest and interrupted by the bloody tip of a welt that vanished under his arm, Harry swallowed convulsively. He dabbed at the welt, washing off the dried blood and some that was still fresh. Under his ministrations it gradually stopped bleeding and he stood up so he could use the mirror on his wall to examine his back.

 

It was harder to quell the nausea this time. Thick red welts overlapped and crossed over each other, some ending in the deep indent of a belt buckle with dark trails of blood snaking from them. It had been a long time since Uncle Vernon had used the buckle end in his punishments. Harry had almost forgotten what it felt like and he sincerely hoped to forget again. He would have to do his utmost to obey every instruction from his aunt and uncle so they would have no more cause to discipline him.

 

He sighed and did his best to clean those regions of his back that he could reach. The constant twisting aggravated his ribs and after a few minutes he had to stop. His breathing was ragged and sweat beaded on his brow.

 

“That’ll have to do,” he muttered. He wished he had some essence of murtlap – it had done wonders after the sessions with Umbridge and her quill – and for that matter, he wouldn’t mind some of Madam Pomfrey’s bruise salve or even those foul-tasting potions. Ironically, he’d had enough foresight to pack some magical remedies in his school trunk before returning to Privet Drive for the summer, but he hadn’t taken into account the possibility that Uncle Vernon would lock his trunk away. He would need a very good reason before he would risk trying to break into the cupboard under the stairs, because if he was caught...

 

Harry shook his head and went about packing up his first-aid kit; the bloodied water he would have to tip out in the bathroom sink later, when no one was around.

 

Deciding not to don another t-shirt until his back was somewhat dryer, to avoid a painful repeat of the rough fabric sticking to open wounds phenomenon, Harry perched on the edge of the chair at his desk. He pulled some paper towards himself and picked up a ballpoint pen, marvelling for a moment at how strange the Muggle contraption felt in his hand after months of using only quills and ink. All his school writing supplies were packed away in his trunk, though. He guessed it didn’t really matter.

 

_Dear Sirius,_ he wrote. And then he froze, staring down at the words he had written without even thinking. The grief struck him anew as he faced the awful reality that he couldn’t ever write to his godfather again.

 

His eyes burned and he rubbed them furiously with his uninjured hand even as he knew that it wouldn’t be necessary. There were no tears. He thought that Sirius deserved to have at least some tears shed for his passing, but Harry couldn’t muster them within himself and it made him feel even worse. He just couldn’t cry. The memory, nearly ten years old now but as fresh in his mind as though it had been yesterday, of Uncle Vernon thrashing him until he stopped sobbing had served as a warning to him whenever the inclination to cry had arisen and within months he had stopped altogether. Since then he had only come close on a few occasions and even the loss of the man who had been the closest thing Harry had ever had to a parent couldn’t burst the dam.

 

Suddenly angry, Harry scrunched the paper in his fist and threw it across the room.

 

_Dear Ron,_ he started again, focusing resolutely on his task. _How’s everything at the Burrow? I hope you and Ginny are both fully recovered from – well, you know. I don’t think I’ve apologised yet for putting you guys in danger like that, so: I’m sorry.  Tell Ginny for me too, won’t you? And you might want to pass it on to your parents as well... I’m guessing they weren’t too happy with us, running off to the Ministry like that. I would tell them myself, but it turns out I can’t come stay with you guys this summer like I usually do._

_You’ll never believe this but Malfoy, the git, has somehow convinced Dumbledore to give him protection from You-Know-Who. I guess the prat isn’t so brave anymore with his dad locked up. He seems to think his life is in danger – and before you say anything, you’re right in thinking that usually I wouldn’t care. But unfortunately, Dumbledore’s idea of protection is for Malfoy to come and live in Privet Drive!!! So we’re both stuck here all summer, although at the rate things are going we’ll probably kill each other long before schools starts up again._

_Don’t worry about me though; I can take care of myself. And I doubt Malfoy will be stupid enough to try anything for at least a while yet._

_I’ll write again in a few days. Say hi to the family for me,_

_Harry._

He looked over it, making sure that he hadn’t included anything that would upset Uncle Vernon. There was no mention of anything magical and no direct complaints about the Dursleys. It would probably pass inspection. Hopefully Ron would be too distracted by the news about Malfoy to ask how Harry was feeling about Sirius or how he was being treated by his relatives.

 

He penned a similar letter to Hermione, asking her about her holidays and family and explaining about Malfoy.  He wrote briefly to Lupin as well, aware that the Order would want evidence that he was alive and well, but it wasn’t the same as writing to Sirius.

 

Unconsciously his gaze wandered back to the scrunched up paper ball lying discarded on the floor.

 

Before he was even aware of moving, he had picked up the letter and smoothed it out on the desk again.

_Dear Sirius,_ it said.

 

He started writing slowly at first, not knowing why he was bothering to write a letter to someone who was never going to read it and wondering if it was an early sign of insanity. But soon the words were spilling freely onto the page.

 

_I miss you. I miss you so much that my chest has a constant ache and it’s not just from Uncle Vernon’s return home present. I think that maybe crying would ease the knot a little bit, but I can’t, and I’m sorry. Please don’t think it’s because I didn’t love you. I did. I do. I never told you and I’m so sorry. I hope you knew anyway, even if I never said the words. You meant everything to me. You were the closest thing to a father I’ve had since my parents died and I wanted more than anything for you to be proven innocent and for us to live together. Although, maybe not in Grimmauld Place. I know you hated it there – probably as much as I hate Privet Drive._

_I messed everything up for us, though, didn’t I? I botched the confrontation with Wormtail and allowed the one proof of your innocence to escape back to Voldemort, forcing you to go into hiding and live trapped in the house that held so many bad memories for you. I was too weak to stop Voldemort from rising again that night in the graveyard. I made you feel like I didn’t want to see you when you suggested meeting up in Hogsmeade that time. I didn’t try hard enough to learn Occulmency. I let Voldemort get inside my head and manipulate me, when I should have damn well known better. I forgot about the two-way mirror you gave me until it was already too late. I trusted Kreacher of all things to tell me the truth, even though I knew that he hated all of us. I went charging off to London without stopping to think. I put Ron and the others in danger and I nearly let the Death Eaters get a hold of the Prophecy. I forced the Order to come to our rescue._

_I was stupid and reckless, and I got you killed. In the end, I was the one who dragged you out of the one place where you were safe and instead of saving your life like I meant to, I ended it. If I had never gone to the Ministry, you wouldn’t be dead right now. You would be alive and well and I would be sending a real letter to you instead of writing – this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If I could somehow go back and change what happened, I would do it in a heartbeat. I’d even take the killing curse for you. Because of me, you never got a chance to live. First Azkaban and now... I don’t care what Dumbledore said, I know that this was all my fault. I’m cursed. Even Malfoy can see it – I kill everyone I touch. I’m sorry for letting myself get close to you like that. I should have known better._

_I’m sorry, Sirius. I know that I can never earn or ask your forgiveness and that almost hurts worse than losing you did. I hope at least that you’re in a better place now._

_Love Harry._

 

He stared at it for a long time after he had written the last word. If it had been a real letter, Harry knew that he would have written it much like Ron’s and Hermione’s. It would have been brief and shallow, and it wouldn’t have mentioned anything about how he was really feeling. In the past, he had forced himself to censor his letters because if his godfather had gotten so much as a hint that something was wrong he would have come running without a moment’s hesitation or a thought for his own safety.  It didn’t matter now, though. Harry’s plan to protect him had backfired spectacularly.

 

Sirius was dead.

 

Life had lost all hope and meaning.

 

Maybe it was for the best that Harry couldn’t cry. He was growing hard inside and that could only make him a better weapon for Dumbledore. He hadn’t thought before that he was capable of setting out with the deliberate intention of killing someone, even Voldemort, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he could.

 

The Prophecy said that he would have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’. Voldemort thought him to be Dumbledore’s Hero of the Light, incapable of casting so much as an effective Crucio, let alone a killing curse.  But Voldemort had fulfilled the part of the Prophecy about marking Harry as his equal. Maybe, without realising it, in killing Harry’s parents Voldemort had also set Harry up to become as cold-hearted as he was. Harry was loyal to the Light, but with each death of a loved one, with each beating from his Uncle, the darkness inside of him was growing. He was prophesied to be Voldemort’s nemesis and so Voldemort would expect him to be his opposite in every way. But he wasn’t anymore. Just as Voldemort hated, Harry hated. He hated himself, he hated his life, he hated his relatives, he hated Bellatrix, he hated Voldemort.

 

Dumbledore was wrong. Love wasn’t the power in Harry that Voldemort would never anticipate – hate was.

 

Harry scrunched up the letter in his fist for a second time and threw it at the waste paper basket, not caring that it rebounded violently and ended up on the floor again. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, except killing Voldemort. When that was done, Harry would be done too.

 

ooOOoo


	6. Alternate Entertainment

Boring.

 

That was the only word that could adequately describe Draco’s life at the moment. He was _bored_. During holidays at home he would occupy himself with Quidditch practice out above their enormous pitch, or playing Wizard’s Chess with his mother, or exploring his father’s massive collection of books, or performing magic behind the manor’s masking wards, or going on shopping trips to places like Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, or attending professional Quidditch matches... There was practically an endless list of entertainment options for a young wizard in the world of magic, providing one was rich enough.

 

What did the Muggle world have? From what Draco had observed over the past few days, Potter’s aunt spent all her time peering through windows and over hedges at the other people in the neighbourhood, chatting inanely to herself while holding a strange contraption to her ear, reading magazines and drinking tea. Potter’s cousin ate copious amounts of food and stared at the strange box with the moving images for hours on end, or else participated in the goings on of a similar-looking box using a strange hand-held item and lots of yelling. He went out sometimes but Draco had no way of knowing what he got up to outside of the house. Potter’s uncle was absent frequently – presumably working – but at home he, too, stared at the box and consumed anything edible he could find. It was disgusting, quite frankly, and Draco wasn’t at all surprised by how extremely overweight the Dursley males were.

 

As for Potter himself... The moron didn’t seem to comprehend that he was on _holiday._ Every time Draco saw him he was doing something utterly ridiculous, such as cooking or cleaning. Draco never woke up before him and Potter was inevitably still busy with some task or another when Draco finally retired to bed. It was quite inconsiderate of Potter, really, since he was providing absolutely no inspiration for boredom-relieving activities that Draco could participate in.

 

So, naturally, for lack of something else entertaining to do, Draco was forced to do his utmost to irritate Potter.

 

This particular afternoon, Potter was in the garden. Draco set himself up in a comfortable sun lounge chair on the patio to watch. And to taunt, of course.

 

It was strange. In Herbology at school, Potter had displayed a decent level of competency for the subject but never any enthusiasm. In fact, Draco might have thought that Potter despised gardening, though the Gryffindor never expressed such a sentiment outwardly.

 

Yet here he was, in the full heat of a summer’s day, moving through the garden with a smooth efficiency, pulling weeds, watering flowers, clipping the hedge, spreading mulch... When Draco called him on it, Potter actually said that he enjoyed such menial work. Draco could hardly believe it. _This_ is what the _Golden Boy_ did for _fun_? Muggle plants weren’t even interesting!

 

To his intense frustration, Potter barely responded to his snide remarks, but Draco kept trying.

 

“Trying to work up enough of a sweat to flatten your hair, Potter? Because I can tell you right now, it’s a lost cause.”

 

“Hoping that a thick coating of dirt will hide your appalling taste in clothes?”

 

“As if your blood isn’t muddy enough, you’re trying to absorb more through your skin now?”

 

“Looking for some gold to donate to the Weasel?”

 

“Trying to make up for the fact that even the dunce of the year level is better than you at Herbology?”

 

“A scar on your forehead isn’t enough for you, you want green thumbs as well?”

 

Once or twice, Potter looked up from his work and Draco felt sure that he had finally managed to elicit a reaction from the other boy, but those green eyes would merely flash in irritation for a second and then return to a neutral state. Potter would go back to his plants without providing so much as a snappy retort or a word in his own defence. It was infuriating!

 

Draco couldn’t work out what he was doing wrong. He had mocked Potter’s appearance, called him a mudblood (though in strict definition, he was actually a first-generation pureblood), made a jab about his best friend, insulted his intelligence and remarked on the one thing that made Potter stand out more than anything (which, Draco had noticed over the years, the Golden Boy acutely disliked). By all rights, Potter should be verbally sparring with him by now.

 

He would never admit it to anyone, but most of the time Draco actually enjoyed trading insults with Potter. There weren’t many people who could hold their own against him but Potter was one of those few and Draco relished the challenge that the other boy usually so obligingly provided.

 

This new, impassive version of Potter was no fun at all. How was Draco supposed to keep himself entertained all summer if Potter was just going to ignore him the whole time?

 

The situation was unacceptable, Draco decided. He was going to figure Potter out once and for all; it was now his own, personal mission for the holidays. The Golden Boy of Gryffindor was going to discover the dire consequences of ignoring a Slytherin.

 

The corner of his lips lifted slightly as the frustration and boredom he had felt previously dropped away. He had a mystery to solve and far more resources at his disposal here than he usually had at school.

 

The private life of Harry Potter, now open for examination by one Draco Malfoy.

 

This was going to be fun.

 

ooOOoo

 

The first stage of his plan, Draco decided, would involve a more detailed examination of Potter’s room than he had been allowed on the day he’d moved into this dingy little hovel. Potter had tried to leave it out of the tour so, even though Draco hadn’t really spotted anything worth seeing the first time around, he knew that there had to be _something._

 

Before he began, Draco checked the positions of Potter and his family to make sure that none of them were likely to walk in on him while he was snooping around. 

 

The aunt and uncle were staring at the box in the living room again; apparently it was a nightly Muggle ritual that started at six o’clock and ended an hour later called ‘watching the news’. Draco hadn’t yet managed to work out why the Muggles felt it necessary to have a talking head update them on current events when newspapers like the Daily Prophet were perfectly sufficient. Laziness, he supposed. Or maybe they couldn’t read very well – it wouldn’t surprise him.

 

Potter’s bloated cousin was sitting in the kitchen staring at a smaller box which displayed something different; it was ‘on another channel’, apparently, which Draco had deduced was somewhat like changing the settings on a window. So they had portraits that could change but windows that couldn’t. The Muggle world had everything all wrong. It was a miracle that it was able to function at all.

 

Potter was in the kitchen, too, but rather than sitting around stuffing sweets and crisps like his repulsive cousin, he had started cooking dinner. He always scheduled to have everything ready by the time the ‘news’ ended, so Draco knew that he would be occupied for the next hour too.

 

Draco had plenty of time, then.

 

He ascended the stairs quietly but purposefully, not sneaking like an amateur practically begging to be caught out for sheer idiotic obviousness, yet not stepping loud enough to draw attention to his movements. He slipped past the other doors along the corridor and approached the one that stood out for the extreme number of locks that adorned it. Draco was seriously beginning to wonder if the stress of being the number one target for Death Eaters was having a negative impact on Potter’s mental health. The house was already warded by powerful magic, yet Potter felt it necessary to have locks on his door and bars on his second-storey window? As though a wizard who had managed to break through the wards would have any trouble at all getting past such pathetic Muggle security measures?

 

Draco shook his head bemusedly and entered the room, gently closing the door behind him. Almost immediately he had to repress a shudder. The room felt more like a tiny prison cell than a bedroom. He didn’t know how Potter could sleep in a place like this, let alone feel safe. Draco resisted the uncomfortable sensation crawling over his skin that told him the walls were closing in, because he knew that it wasn’t possible in a Muggle house, and focused on the task at hand.

 

He wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he expected to find, though he’d know once he laid his hands on it. He thought that maybe Potter kept a diary… He seemed to remember that in their second year at Hogwarts, Potter’s bag had split and Draco had snatched up a diary that had fallen out onto the floor, but he hadn’t had the chance to read it. It was a strange habit for a teenage boy to have, but Potter was pretty much strange by definition so Draco supposed it was possible.

 

Where would Potter keep something like that?

 

Draco moved over to the desk first. Stationery – or at least, he presumed it was the Muggle equivalent of stationery, with odd substitutes for quills, ink and parchment – was scattered untidily across the surface. Nothing particularly interesting there. The top drawer contained stacks of parchment that were already written on, in a variety of inks and styles of handwriting. Closer inspection revealed that they were letters and birthday cards dating back to second year, all from the same recurring people: Granger, a few of the Weasleys, the oaf Hagrid and Sirius Black.

 

Okay, so Potter was obsessive about keeping every scrap of correspondence he received from his friends. A few of them even looked well-worn, as though he had read them more than once. Draco skimmed over a few, wondering if they said anything particularly gushy or secretive, but they just seemed like ordinary holiday letters.

 

He remembered, then, that Potter almost never received mail when he was at school. Draco had mocked him about it more than once, flaunting the packages he received from his mother on a regular basis. Considering how much Potter seemed to cherish every letter he got, Draco had to wonder why his relatives wouldn’t send him one at least on occasion. Maybe it was because they were Muggles – they didn’t know how to use the Owl Post? But Draco was fairly sure that there were Squibs working in the Muggle postal service to redirect letters intended for wizarding locations.

 

He shrugged, moving on to the next drawer down. It barely had anything in it and what was there just looked to be… junk. A few broken toy soldiers, some broken crayons, a tattered baby blanket and a couple of child’s drawings. On the first piece of thin, white parchment, a young Potter had written “HaRRys RooM” in a few different colours and added a picture underneath. Draco thought it might have been a failed attempt to draw the bedroom, because it had what looked like a bed in it, but the outline was less like a square and more like a triangle with a jagged sloping edge as the ceiling. After a moment, Draco set it aside as unimportant and picked up the other parchment. It was a picture of three people: a man and woman holding a child’s hand. The child had to be Potter, because it showed a lightning-shaped scar, messy black hair, green eyes and glasses. He presumed, then, that the adults were supposed to be his parents, but they didn’t look anything like the photos in the history books – Mrs Potter was drawn with blonde hair, blue eyes and glasses and Mr Potter was drawn with brown hair and green eyes. Why hadn’t the young Potter known what his parents looked like? Surely he’d had photos of them, or at least of his mother – she was Mrs Dursley’s sister, wasn’t she?

 

It was strange, but since it still didn’t provide much of an insight into methods Draco could use to get a rise out of Potter, he put it back. There were no false backs or concealed drawers in the desk as far as he could tell and a quick rummage through the small wardrobe only turned up more of Potter’s poor approximation of clothing, nothing hidden or mysterious.

 

The shelves of broken Muggle toys held nothing of interest either and Draco began to feel frustrated. Potter had said that he only really used this room to sleep in, but Draco would have thought that after 14 years of living here he would have done _something_ to the room to make it look more like it was his and not just a storage space. Posters of a favourite band or Quidditch team, Gryffindor banners, _something_.

 

Although, probably not newspaper clippings. Draco had suggested it earlier as a joke, but just as Potter couldn’t expect compliments from a magical mirror, there weren’t many recent articles about him that were very complimentary either – unless you counted the Quibbler and Draco certainly didn’t.

 

In fact, Potter had started to become infamous in the public eye from their fourth year of school thanks to Rita Skeeter, assisted on occasion by Yours Truly. Even with Skeeter out of the picture after Granger had become all self-righteous and meddlesome, things for Potter hadn’t improved. He had spent the past year being slandered by the media, in ways both subtle and blatant, for claiming that he had witnessed the Dark Lord’s return. Draco had known, of course, that Potter was telling the truth, since his father had provided him with a detailed account of the event, but _he_ was hardly going to support Potter. Aside from Dumbledore and Potter’s close friends, few others had believed the tale. The Boy-Who-Lived had been portrayed as the Boy-Who-Lied and made up fanciful stories for attention-seeking purposes. The Minister for Magic had sent Professor Umbridge to Hogwarts for the express purpose of discrediting Potter and Draco had helped her when he could for the sheer fun of tormenting his school-yard nemesis.

 

It had seemed to work. Potter had been angrier and more irritable in the past year than Draco had ever seen him. He had seemed less fond of Dumbledore too; at the very least, the rest of the school faculty had never discovered Umbridge’s use of the Blood Quill, so evidently Potter hadn’t tried to complain to the Headmaster about it and everyone else had followed suit. Did the Golden Boy no longer trust him? It was an intriguing prospect, considering that Potter had been the Headmaster’s favourite student from the moment he first entered the doors of Hogwarts castle. Draco wondered what had changed.

 

Unfortunately, now that the Wizarding World was aware that the Dark Lord had returned, the media had stopped insulting Potter and started calling him “the Chosen One” – as though his ego wasn’t already inflated enough. Really, though, Potter had begun to get over his frustration with the Daily Prophet once he’d given his interview to the Quibbler, and his campaign against Umbridge had worked rather well, too.

 

So, no taunt material available there anymore.

                                                                                                           

Draco sighed and gave the room another brief glance over. He checked under the pillow on the bed, but instead of a diary he only found a photograph of Potter’s parents (moving, as a proper photograph should). He was almost ready to give up on this stage of his plan and had started moving toward the door when a loose floorboard shifted under his weight.

 

He felt a Slytherin grin spread across his face and dropped down to his knees to pry up the floorboard. What better place to hide something, after all? He was sure that he’d won the Galleon Draw this time.

 

The space available under there was quite significant, but Draco was disappointed to notice that it was practically empty. There was a white bag marked with a red cross that held strange tubs, bottles and strips of white fabric among other odds and ends, a bottle of water, a few small lollies, crumb residue and a photo book of Potter’s parents.

 

“What do you do, Potter?” he exclaimed in frustration, standing up and knocking the floorboard back into place with his foot. “Tell all your secrets to the damn owl?!” He glared at the snowy white bird in the corner as though it had personally offended him and stalked for the door. He kicked a scrunched up piece of Muggle parchment that was in his path as a means of venting some of his irritation and then froze, having noticed two words out of the corner of his eye.

 

 _Dear Sirius_ , the parchment said.

 

Draco swiped it up and smoothed it out. With every word, his grin broadened. He had found what he was looking for.

 

ooOOoo

 

As Harry was setting out the last of the food on the table, double checking everything so that his relatives wouldn’t be able to find any fault with the meal, he noticed Malfoy swagger into the room.

 

 _Oh, no,_ Harry thought _._ Malfoy was smiling. That couldn’t mean anything good and the sounds coming from the living room indicated that his aunt and uncle were already on their way.

 

“I’ll bring some up to your room in a minute,” Harry said hastily.

 

“No thanks, Potter.  I think I want to eat down here today.” He settled himself into the spare chair and put his feet up, flourishing a piece of paper he held in his hand.

 

He could hear Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. “Why?”

 

“Well, I’ve been doing some reading and I found something that I just had to share with all of you.” Malfoy’s tone was dangerously gleeful, as though he were about to pull some tremendous prank.

 

“I don’t think my relatives would be interested-”

 

“Sure they will.” Malfoy turned to Dudley, poking him roughly in the shoulder. “Don’t you want to hear what Potter’s written in this secret letter, Dudders?”

 

Dudley’s face turned red at both the use of his hated nickname and the unwanted interruption of his television program. Harry was almost sure that Dudley was going to tell Malfoy to sod off and go back to watching the screen, which should give Harry just enough time to snatch whatever it was Malfoy had found away from him.

 

But no, it was already too late.

 

“Secret letter?” Uncle Vernon’s voice growled from the doorway. “What secret letter? To who?”

 

Malfoy beamed, and started to quote in an exaggerated, mocking voice. “’ _Dear Sirius.’”_

Harry froze. No. Malfoy couldn’t have this. He’d thrown it out, it was impossible. Malfoy couldn’t have found-

_“’I miss you,’”_ he continued ruthlessly. _“’I miss you so much that my chest has a constant ache. I think that maybe crying would ease the knot a little bit, but I can’t, and I’m sorry. Please don’t think it’s because I didn’t love you. I did. I do.’_ ” Draco couldn’t contain himself any longer, starting to chuckle and then to laugh.

 

Harry staggered backwards, his back hitting the edge of the surface, which sent a lance of pain down his nerves that he barely felt.

 

Uncle Vernon wasn’t amused. His face was changing colour rapidly as his anger rose. “Sirius? As in your godfather, Boy? You’ve been writing to him behind my back?!”

 

Malfoy snorted. “Much good it’ll do him, since the dog is _dead_.”

 

“SHUT UP!” Harry yelled, furiously, desperately, launching forward.

 

Vernon caught his shoulder roughly, shoving him back and turning to stare at Malfoy. “Dead? His godfather’s dead?”

 

“Yeah,” Malfoy grinned. “He has been for weeks now – didn’t Potter tell you?”

 

Vernon pinned him with a glare and Harry shrank back, his anger at Malfoy giving way to fear of his uncle unleashed. The existence of Sirius had been a protection for Harry in the past, although it had lost some of its potency once Vernon had cottoned onto the fact that Sirius was in danger of being caught if he ever came out into the open. He had been more cautious though, less violent, just in case. But with Sirius gone… “No, he didn’t,” Vernon snarled, a predator’s gleam coming to his eyes.

 

“Ah well, I suppose he didn’t want you to know,” Malfoy said casually. “It was his fault, after all. ‘ _I was stupid and reckless, and I got you killed’.”_

Anger flared again. “Bellatrix – your bloody aunt – was the one who killed him, Malfoy! So shut the hell up!”

 

Malfoy smirked. “Yes she did, and I’m sure the Dark Lord was so proud of his protégé. But listen, this is _so_ sweet: ‘ _I hope you knew anyway, even if I never said the words. You meant everything to me. You were the closest thing to a father I’ve had since my parents died.’_ I mean come on, isn’t that just beautiful? _”_

Dudley had started snickering, finally pulled away from the T.V. to listen to the goings on inside his own kitchen. “First you start crying over your boyfriend’s death in your sleep and now you’re writing letters to your dead godfather, Potter?”  


Malfoy perked up at this. “Boyfriend?”

 

“Cedric,” Dudley said.

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Ohh! We all thought Potter had the hots for Cedric’s girlfriend, but it was actually Cedric himself that he wanted, was it? Well that’s interesting. No wonder he and Cho broke up.”

 

“That’s bull and you know it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “So give me back that letter, shut up and leave me the hell alone!”

 

Draco dangled the piece of paper in the air, wearing a triumphant grin. “Wow, you know I thought it would be a lot harder to get a rise out of you, Potter, but it turns out all I need to do is mention Sirius Black and you totally lose it. Because you _loved_ him, is that right, Potter? Did you love that flea-bitten murderer?”

 

“He was INNOCENT!” Harry shouted, his control slipping. Plates and glasses rattled, the light sparked overhead.

 

Dudley and Aunt Petunia backed up, looking worried. Vernon’s face was swiftly moving from red to purple. Malfoy’s expression was smug.

 

“Accidental magic, is it, Potter? I thought most wizards outgrew that once they started school. Do you still wear a diaper, too, baby Potter?”

 

Memories of Bellatrix taunting him – _‘Oh, he knows how to play, little bitty baby Potter’_ – _‘Come out, come out, little Harry!’_ – _‘Aaaaah, did you_ love _him, little baby Potter?_ ’ – flashed to the forefront of his mind. Hatred burned in his veins.

 

“If you don’t shut up right now, Malfoy, so help me I will-”

 

“Get yourself kicked out of school?” Malfoy suggested cheerfully. “Go on, then, give it your best shot.”

 

He could feel the magic building inside him, screaming to be released. He wanted to wipe that stupid grin from Malfoy’s face, force him to stop talking, make him feel some of the same agony that was tearing his insides to shreds.

 

The light above them sparked again, more violently this time. A glass shattered.

 

Reason invaded Harry’s mind at the last moment. Malfoy was goading him deliberately and Harry was playing right into his game. He couldn’t do this. The state he was in, he could end up seriously hurting the other boy or injuring his relatives. If he was expelled from Hogwarts, he wouldn’t be able to learn what he needed to fight Voldemort. And if he didn’t stop the magic now, Uncle Vernon would give him one of the worst beatings of his life.

 

He struggled to regain control, but the magic didn’t want to be suppressed. It had already reached a critical stage. Something had to give.

 

A scream of effort burst from his lips and the magic imploded within him. His body slammed backwards, his head connected sharply with the edge of the surface and the world went black.

 

He crumpled, out cold.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco gaped, for once at a loss for words.

 

He had been fully prepared to whip out his wand and raise a shield around himself with a quick ‘Protego’ once Potter finally exploded; he knew that he wouldn’t be found culpable for such self-defensive magic. But Potter had done the impossible. In an adult witch or wizard, accidental magic could only be brought on during periods of extreme emotion and once it had begun there was no way to stop it. It could be channelled in a way different to the original intention if the person was able to regain emotional control, but the magic had to be released somehow – it was too powerful not to be.

 

He had seen Potter reach that point. The air had practically thrummed with power and fragile objects within range had begun to break under the pressure. But at the last second, impossibly, Potter had reined in the magic and contained it so no one but himself would be harmed.

 

Draco had never seen the like of it and he had known some fairly powerful wizards in his time. He was almost impressed, but he’d never admit that out loud.

 

Potter was unconscious now, sprawled in an ungraceful heap with a thin trickle of blood running from his nose.

 

Potter’s aunt and cousin remained backed up against the furthest wall as though they still expected something calamitous to happen. His uncle looked angry – either he didn’t realise that Potter’s reaction had been largely out of his control or he was cross with Draco himself for getting the other wizard so dangerously riled up.

 

“It’s safe now,” Draco said awkwardly.

 

Mr Dursley grunted and sat down heavily at the table. “Bloody cold,” he muttered, prodding the food unenthusiastically with his fork and shooting a glare out from under his brow at Potter’s unmoving form.

 

“And he broke one of my glasses,” Mrs Dursley complained, moving to claim the plates and reheat them in the box-like Muggle contraption, called a ‘microwave’ if Potter was to be believed (although how tiny ripples in the ocean had anything to do with warming food was beyond his comprehension).

 

Dudley settled his substantial mass back into a chair, which creaked slightly in protest, and returned his attention to the ‘channel’ he’d been watching earlier.

 

Draco stared at them all disbelievingly for a minute or so. “Shouldn’t you check if he’s alright?” he suggested finally.

 

The two adults glanced over at him, appearing confused, as though they didn’t know what he was talking about. Then Mrs Dursley followed his gaze to the spot where Potter lay under the bench and realisation dawned in her eyes.

 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she said after a moment of distant observation, pulling a plate from the microwave when a beeping noise sounded and replacing it with a different one.  “Your kind are tough.”

 

“He’s unconscious,” Draco felt inclined to point out.

 

“Well he did it to himself, didn’t he?” Mr Dursley chipped in, accepting the food offered by his wife and digging in with gusto. “How are we supposed to know how to deal with something like that? We’re _normal_ people.”

 

There was some logic to that, Draco supposed. Even he didn’t know what effect the forced containment of magic could have had on Potter’s body, or what should be done to help him if anything, and he was a wizard born and raised.

 

“I’ll just… move him to the couch in the lounge then, shall I?” Draco said. It was against his nature to offer, but Potter’s relatives weren’t doing anything and Draco was partially responsible for what had happened. This was as close to an apology as he would get.

 

Mrs Dursley shrugged, setting down a plate in front of her son who started eating without even glancing away from the screen. “If you want to go to the effort. I’m sure he’ll be fine, though.”

 

Unsettled and not exactly sure why, Draco moved over to Potter’s still form. He didn’t know how to go about this without the use of magic – he couldn’t do a diagnostic charm, he couldn’t bring Potter back to consciousness and he couldn’t immobilise or levitate him. Doing everything the Muggle way was beginning to get on his nerves and Draco found himself feeling irritated at Potter – a simple ‘Protego’ would have been a lot easier than all this stuffing around. The black-haired menace had no consideration at all.

 

As he planned his strategy for approaching this task, Draco belatedly realised he was still holding the letter that had started this whole fiasco and crammed it into one of his pockets to free up the hand. He then crouched down, slipped one arm under Potter’s shoulders and the other under Potter’s knees, and rose as smoothly as he could from the position. To his surprise, Potter wasn’t nearly as heavy as he’d expected.

 

It occurred to him that if Potter were to wake up right now, Draco would never live this down. Resolving to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, he strode swiftly from the kitchen down the hall to the lounge room.

 

Somewhat awkwardly, he set Potter down on the longest sofa, arranged his limbs into a position that looked more comfortable and slipped a cushion under his head. A part of him was disgusted with himself for even doing that much, so rather than sitting around waiting for Potter to recover as he was sure Granger or the Weasel would do in this sort of situation, Draco retreated from the room.

 

He claimed his portion of dinner from the kitchen, deciding to eat it cold rather than attempt to figure out how to use the Muggle heating device, and relocated to his bedroom.

 

An unfamiliar feeling had settled in his stomach which took away most of his appetite and what he did consume in the end didn’t sit very well. He wondered uncomfortably if it was because of what he’d done earlier. A Slytherin would say that, in bringing up Sirius Black like that, he had merely used an enemy’s weakness against him. Draco had heard another phrase, though, used by Gryffindors in a disparaging way towards people who had done something similar: they called it ‘kicking a man when he’s down’, and they didn’t consider it a very honourable thing to do. Was it guilt, then, that he was feeling?

 

Slytherins didn’t care about honour, though, or fair play. Why should Draco start now?

 

It didn’t matter to him that whenever Potter let his guard down his eyes burned with a grief so raw it was almost painful to witness. He was disdainful of typical Gryffindorish inability to effectively mask emotions, that was all.

 

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the image of Potter’s pain-filled expression out of his head and the unpleasant feeling stayed with him all night.

 

ooOOoo


	7. A Subtle Shift

“… still sleeping… good-for-nothing layabout… no breakfast ready… no coffee… not earning his keep…”

 

The words – cold, hard, unforgiving, angry – filtered through the haze of pain, warning him. He’d done something wrong, he’d overslept, Uncle Vernon wasn’t happy, he had to get up now or-

 

Harry jerked awake, bolting upright in his panic.

 

Bones and muscles screeched in protest at the sudden movement, his vision blackened, his head swam. He toppled, reaching blindly for his bedside table to steady himself, but there was nothing there to catch him. He fell hard.

 

The bone-deep ache in every inch of his body didn’t feel so out of place, but he could feel the frame of his glasses pressing into his cheek and it made no sense to him. If he’d been sleeping, why hadn’t he taken off his glasses? It was automatic, routine. Even when he was exhausted beyond words, he always took off his glasses before letting sleep claim him. He didn’t want to break them overnight – they usually suffered enough injury during the day for some reason or another and he didn’t want to add to it. They were the only pair he had.

 

Try as he might, though, he couldn’t remember taking them off last night. He couldn’t even remember finishing his chores and going to bed. The bedside table was missing. Why couldn’t he remember anything past cooking dinner for the Dursleys? He had just finished setting everything out on the table, and then-

 

Malfoy. The letter. Sirius. Uncle Vernon knew. Malfoy wouldn’t stop. Angry. Upset. The kitchen rattling just like the time with Aunt Marge. Couldn’t let it happen again. Had to keep it in.

 

Pain.

 

And then nothing.

 

Harry forced open his eyes, expecting to find himself lying on the kitchen floor – except that didn’t make sense, because he’d just fallen off something soft. Softer than his bed usually was, and the floor beneath him wasn’t hard tile. It was carpet.

 

He pushed himself to his knees and reached up to readjust his glasses.

 

Once he could see properly, he realised that he was in the lounge room. Someone must have moved him in here after he collapsed, but he couldn’t imagine Uncle Vernon or Dudley being willing to help him like that and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have wanted him ‘befouling’ her pristine couch. It made no sense. Maybe he had been sleep-walking? But then surely he would have ended up in his bedroom, or in the cupboard under the stairs. Not here. He wasn’t even allowed in here most of the time, unless he was cleaning or setting up for guests.

 

“Finally awake, are you?” Aunt Petunia said, appearing in the doorway with a disapproving frown adorning her features.

 

She wasn’t yelling at him. And for that matter, she hadn’t tried to wake him up like she usually would if he had slept more than he was supposed to. She had let him rest, which almost never happened unless he was physically incapable of getting up due to some serious injury or illness. But then, he was aware that she knew more about magic than she customarily let on, so maybe she’d realised that whatever he had done yesterday, he needed time to recover. Madame Pomfrey would have certainly prescribed bed rest, Harry knew – probably for a few days, but here one night was all he was going to get.

 

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” he answered, dragging himself to his feet. He smoothed out the cushions on the couch quickly, noticing that she pursed her lips but didn’t complain that he’d spent the night there, and moved to get started on his chores for the day.

 

“I’m off to work, Petunia,” Uncle Vernon announced, cuffing Harry sharply on the back of his head as he passed him in the hallway and aiming a glare in his direction.

 

Harry saw stars, but he continued on to the dining room without missing a beat, just glad that Uncle Vernon didn’t have enough time to articulate his irritation in any more detail.

 

The mess from last night’s dinner still covered the table and had been added to by cereal bowls, but Aunt Petunia had at least cleaned the kitchen area until it sparkled, evidently unable to wait for him to get around to it. She was a perfectionist when it came to her kitchen.

 

Relieved that he wasn’t too far behind in his duties this morning – aside from breakfast, of course, which he was sure he was going to pay for later – Harry got to work. He disposed of the broken glass, mopped up the spill, and while he was collecting the plates he crammed some of the leftover food into his mouth before he could stop himself. He wasn’t usually allowed to ‘steal’ food like this, but the magical expenditure yesterday had left him so hungry that he couldn’t ignore it anymore, even with all the practice he’d had. No one would notice. He hoped.

 

He washed and dried the dishes, put everything back where they belonged, wiped down the table and swept the floor. He was finished in record time, but he could feel the fatigue creeping in on him already and it was barely 10 o’clock in the morning.

 

“Oi, Potter!”

 

Dudley stomped into the room, deliberately bumping into Harry as he made for the refrigerator. Harry stumbled, snagging the edge of the table to keep himself from falling and then biting back a pained exclamation – he’d used his burned hand. All the strength seemed to have been sapped from his limbs, because usually Dudley wasn’t able to unbalance him, or even get so far as to knock into him in the first place. Most times, Harry would get out of the way fast enough and Dudley couldn’t be bothered pursuing it. His reflexes had slowed, so he had to be even more tired than he’d realised.

 

“You have to clean the bathroom today, Potter,” Dudley continued, pulling a leftover sausage from the fridge and shoving it into his mouth. A laugh escaped him, taking a shower of half-masticated meat with it. “Potter needs to clean the potty. Isn’t that right, Potty?”

 

 _Original,_ Harry thought. Malfoy had come up with that one ages ago and it was one of his least witty insults. “I cleaned it yesterday,” Harry said aloud.

 

Dudley grinned. “The huge puddle on the floor says otherwise. And the toothpaste on the mirror. And the shampoo on the walls. Mum’s not going to be too happy when she sees it.”

 

He’d done it deliberately, just so Harry would have more work to do. A few years back, Harry might have told him to clean it up himself and then Dudley would have gone to Aunt Petunia to tell her that Harry had been the one to make the mess. Aunt Petunia would have known it wasn’t true but she would have forced him to clean it up with his own toothbrush anyway. It wasn’t worth the effort, really.

 

“I’ll get right on it then,” Harry said.

 

Dudley’s smile wasn’t as triumphant as it usually was. He, like Malfoy, apparently didn’t like it when Harry didn’t react. All that time he had spent trying to annoy his cousin in relatively safe ways and now when he couldn’t care less it turned out to be the most effective strategy. It had to be irony, or something.

 

Harry left Dudley to his raid of the fridge and trudged upstairs, ignoring the fact that his legs were trembling even at this mild form of exertion.

 

Dudley had left the tap running and when Harry got there the puddle was inches away from flooding out into the hallway. He thought he might have felt a tiny spark of annoyance there for a moment, but it didn’t last. It wasn’t as though the emotion was of much use to him anyway.

 

He turned off the tap, collected the cleaning supplies from the cupboard and dropped to his knees to get started. He was going to be soaked by the end of this, but he figured he would dry off outside when he got to work on building that new garden bench that his aunt wanted, to replace the one that Dudley had broken the other day by sitting on it.

 

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice came from the doorway.

 

Harry didn’t bother to look up. “Wrong room, Malfoy. My bedroom’s down the other end, if you wanted to have another look through my private stuff.”

 

“What are you doing?”

                                                                                                                                      

“Enjoying a nice refreshing cup of tea,” Harry replied sarcastically, continuing to mop up the water and squeeze out the towel over the sink.

 

Malfoy snorted in amusement. “Yes, I can see that.” He stood there, watching silently for a few moments, and Harry didn’t like it. Aunt Petunia did that sometimes, staring at him as he worked, tapping a foot impatiently, just waiting for him to make a mistake so she could yell or criticise. “Shouldn’t you still be asleep?” Malfoy said at last.

 

Okay, not quite what he had been expecting. “Why? It’s practically the middle of the day.”

 

“So? You’ve got to be exhausted, after… what happened yesterday.”

 

Harry couldn’t even begin to fathom what Malfoy was trying to do. Bring up the letter again to try to get the same reaction out of him? “I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

 

“No you’re not,” Malfoy persisted. “You’ve got a huge dark circle under your good eye to rival the bruise on the other one, and your hands are trembling.”

 

Oh, he was here to gloat. Fantastic, just what Harry needed right now. “Congratulations, you did a number on me last night. Round one to you. Now go away.”

 

“But why are you in here, cleaning like a house elf, when you’ve barely even begun to regain the energy you expended yesterday? You can’t possibly find _this_ fun.”

 

“It needed doing,” Harry shrugged, not understanding what Malfoy was still doing there. Enjoying the show? At least Harry hadn’t started on the toilet yet – he could imagine that Malfoy would enjoy revisiting the ‘Potty’ joke, old as it was. “Don’t you have homework to do or something?”

 

“Fine,” Malfoy said, turning sharply away. “See if I try to help you the next time you lose consciousness.”

 

Harry looked up at last, startled, but Malfoy was already gone.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco and Potter had reached a stalemate, of sorts.

 

Potter seemed to have a grand total of two emotional states at the moment: impassive and berserk. Draco had discovered his trigger, but it wasn’t particularly safe to use and if he was honest with himself he would have to admit that it wasn’t much fun either. Potter’s preference was clearly to ignore him, so Draco thought he’d oblige him for once and do the same.

 

Unfortunately, Potter’s relatives weren’t inclined to talk to him either and although ordinarily Draco would have considered this a positive thing it meant he was rather isolated. He couldn’t receive letters, of course. No one was supposed to know where he was, his mother included – in order to protect her, the story had been fabricated that Draco had run away of his own accord without telling her where he was going or why. Voldemort would take it as a betrayal, but not from her, and hopefully her status as Bellatrix’s sister would do the rest to keep her safe from his wrath. Besides, even if his letters could be safely forwarded here, all his school friends would know by now that he had fled rather than join Voldemort. With that knowledge in circulation, he wondered if he even _had_ friends anymore.

 

Draco was beginning to feel very alone in the world.

 

To distract himself from his thoughts, which grew ever more dark and depressing whenever they were allowed to run unchecked, Draco concentrated on his homework. He wilfully chose to ignore the fact that it had been Potter that had made the suggestion.

 

It worked for a while, but his single-minded focus on getting it done meant that he completed everything far sooner than he normally would.  And then he had nothing to do. Nothing at all.

 

He didn’t want to think about what his father was going through right now, locked up in Azkaban, even if the Dementors were no longer acting as the guards. He didn’t want to think about what would happen to his mother if the Dark Lord ever discovered that it had been her idea to secret him away so he wouldn’t have to join the ranks of the Death Eaters. He didn’t want to think about what school would be like for him this year, with the Slytherins against him for the decision he’d made and the rest of the houses against him because of who his father was. He didn’t want to think about how the world would change for the worse if the Dark Lord won and what it would mean for him personally, as a traitor.

 

He didn’t want to think about the reality of his life now, period. But with nothing else to do, his thoughts were relentless.

 

The situation became so bad that he started re-reading all of last year’s textbooks and then began to wonder if maybe joining Potter in painting the fence would actually help make the time pass faster. He was slowly going crazy, cooped up in the house like this.

 

He paced his room. He strolled up and down the hallway. He roamed the house. He walked around the garden in circles, again, and again, and again.

 

He wanted, no, _needed,_ to do _something_. Anything.

 

Every time one of the Dursleys left the house, Draco found himself envying their freedom. He watched as Dudley strolled oh so casually down the driveway and out into the street to join a group of his friends, laughing, back-slapping, going off somewhere unknown with them. He watched as Potter’s aunt left to go shopping, or to chat to the neighbours. He watched as Potter’s uncle drove away to his workplace. They didn’t even seem to realise how lucky they were, to be able to leave whenever they wanted and go wherever they wanted.

 

He was even jealous of Potter’s owl. Sure, she was locked in her cage a lot of the time, but every three days she was released to carry letters to Potter’s friends. She would soar through the skies, the whole of the world spread out beneath her wings, and Draco would watch her until she was just a speck in the distance.

 

After a while Draco took to standing at the very periphery of the front garden, gazing out at the freedom that was both so close and so far.

 

He never saw any Death Eaters. Likely as not they had watched the house for a week or so, but then realised that Potter wasn’t going to so much as step out into the street for a moment and given it up as a lost cause. It was probably perfectly safe out there now and he was trapped in here for no good reason.

 

Late one afternoon, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and Privet Drive was still, Draco stood in his spot, contemplating the pros and cons of venturing out from the confines of Number 4.

 

He wouldn’t go very far and he wouldn’t be gone for very long. Just a minute or so, just to sprint to the end of the street and see that the world did in fact still exist beyond this small Muggle neighbourhood. No one knew he was here. The Death Eaters were off somewhere else, murdering Muggles and wreaking havoc in wizarding towns. An Order member was probably out there on watch, guarding against anything dangerous. The risk was minimal and the benefit to his sanity was surely worth-

 

Before he had even realised what he was doing, Draco took one step forward, then two.

 

A beam split his face, he let out a _whoop_ of joy and then he was running.

 

By the time he saw the masked figure emerging from the mist, it was already too late.

 

A jet of red light rushed towards him.

 

ooOOoo


	8. The Battle of Privet Drive

 

Harry’s gaze darted around, checking that no one was watching him, then his hand shot out to snatch a chicken drumstick and a bread roll from Malfoy’s dinner plate. He polished them both off in short order, subduing the hunger pangs but not eradicating them entirely.  Uncle Vernon had been slightly more generous with the portion size this evening, since Harry had done nothing to displease him in the past few days, so Harry was reasonably sure that Malfoy wouldn’t miss the items he had nicked.

 

After a moment of deliberation, he ate one of the small stalks of broccoli, too, and then lifted the plate from the table in the hall where he’d temporarily set it. He took the stairs carefully, trying not to put too much weight on the ankle he’d twisted yesterday – with Dudley’s help. The ambushes from his cousin were becoming more successful because Harry had lost interest in evading them, deciding that it took too much of his energy. This latest injury was inconvenient, though.

 

He wondered what had happened to his sense of self-preservation.

 

He just didn’t care anymore and a small part of him was scared by the realisation. But then, if he wanted to stay healthy and alive, being the ‘Chosen One’ was the hardly the ideal occupation. Fate hadn’t given him much of a choice in the matter though.

 

He was being introspective again and it irritated him. He shook his head to clear it and knocked on Malfoy’s door.

 

“Dinner,” he said. There was no reply, so he tried again without receiving a response, then shrugged and entered the room anyway.

 

Malfoy wasn’t inside.

 

Harry frowned. He knew that Malfoy wasn’t downstairs, the bathroom door was open so he wasn’t in there and since the letter incident Malfoy hadn’t shown the inclination to invade his bedroom again. So if he wasn’t in the house…

 

Harry moved to the window, leaving the plate on the desk and reflecting absently that if he was at school he could have placed a heating charm on the meal to prevent it going cold.

 

He saw Malfoy, then, standing at the very edge of the property. Now that he thought about it, Harry had seen the blonde spend a lot of time in that spot recently, gazing out at forbidden territory. He didn’t know why Malfoy would want to torment himself like that. Harry knew, from the experience of growing up with Dudley waving all number of desserts in his face which he was never allowed to so much as lick the spoon or nibble the crumbs from, that being able to see what you couldn’t have only made it worse.

 

He supposed it didn’t really matter, though. Malfoy could look all he wanted, as long as he didn’t do something stupid…

 

Like _that._

 _  
_ Oh Merlin, Malfoy had left the wards. He was going to get himself killed.

 

Even as the thought passed through his mind, along with a number of creative expletives he’d learned from Ron, Harry was pelting down the stairs. The lock to his old cupboard burst open as he approached; he scooped up his wand without missing a beat and dashed out the front door.

 

“ _PROTEGO_!” he bellowed, flinging out his wand arm to send the spell shooting ahead of him.

 

Malfoy was stumbling to a halt, fumbling for his wand, not moving fast enough. The red light hurtled towards him at a horrendous speed-

 

\- and sheered off to the left at the last instant as Harry’s shield snapped into place.

 

Malfoy spun, surprised by the rescue.

 

“Malfoy, you idiot, get back here!” Harry yelled, continuing his wild sprint forward.

 

The Death Eater had to have been surprised too, because Harry got off his second spell before he had started to react to the change of circumstances. “I _MPEDIMENTA_!”

 

A swish of the man’s wand and the spell was reflected, bouncing back at Malfoy who dived out of the way, rolled and shot off his own “ _Stupefy_!”

 

Several loud _cracks_ sounded in the night, heralding the arrival of more masked figures.

 

Harry cast another shield, this time around himself, and quickly sent up several Muggle-repelling charms and an obscuring spell to surround the area. He knew that if any Muggles ventured outside to see what was happening, the Death Eaters would feel no qualms about taking them down in the crossfire. He couldn’t let that happen, just as he couldn’t have left Malfoy out here to fend for himself despite the fact that this whole situation was his own damned fault.

 

The Protego fell, an orange jet of light bursting through it and whizzing past Harry’s ear. He ducked, narrowly avoiding another crimson beam that shot over his head, then charged forward again.

 

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” he shot to his left. The robed figure went rigid and crashed to the ground. Harry stamped hard on the wand as it went flying from his grip, snapping it in half and effectively removing the wizard from this fight even as he took out another Death Eater on his right with a yelled “ _Incarcerous_!”

 

He didn’t pause to watch the conjured ropes do their job, knowing that the sooner he reached Malfoy the better they would be able to defend themselves.

 

A cry of “ _Expulso_!” came from behind him. He flung himself to the ground, just as a nearby letterbox exploded in a belch of flame and rubble. He scrambled out of the range of falling bricks, then spun and from his knees aimed a swift “ _Stupefy_!” at his attacker.

 

The spell was reflected and a stream of purple flames flashed towards him.

 

“ _Serpentsorcia_!” Malfoy yelled, skidding in beside him. The memory of Malfoy using this same spell during their duel in second year skimmed briefly through Harry’s thoughts. The snake that appeared this time was bigger; it arced through the air, jaws wide and swallowed the purple fire whole before it could reach them, then crumbled to ashes.

 

As one they reiterated the stunning spells, which combined were able to break through the Death Eater’s defences and send him sprawling.

 

In the temporary respite that followed, Harry and Malfoy looked at each other, surprised by their teamwork.

 

“Nice one,” Malfoy said, and then the air was once again thick with spells demanding their attention.

 

Their wands were blurs of motion as they alternately defended and attacked, trying to clear a path back to the house. Harry had never seen Malfoy in a full blown battle before and he was grudgingly impressed by the blonde’s proficiency.  The two of them were actually managing to hold their own again superior numbers and gradually regaining ground.

 

“ _Incendio_!” sent fire roaring in at them. Harry yelled “ _Aguamenti_!” and Malfoy added a freezing spell as reinforcement. Steam billowed as the spells crashed together halfway. Harry immediately took advantage of the thick cover.

 

“Run,” he told Malfoy, only just loud enough to be heard, grabbing his arm so they wouldn’t lose each other. Allowing the other boy to lead the way, Harry cast a charm to muffle their footsteps and sent the complementary spell in the other direction so it sounded as though they were making for the end of the street.

 

The steam dissipated all too quickly and the Death Eaters realised they had been tricked, but Harry and Malfoy had nearly reached the safety of Number 4; they increased their speed-

 

A trip jinx hit Harry square in the back, snatching his feet out from under him. Momentum launched him forward, but he still had Malfoy’s arm in a death grip so he tried to catch himself.

 

His injured ankle, until this point forgotten, abruptly crumpled.

 

Not even adrenaline, which had managed to keep him going thus far, could counter the sheer agony that shot up his leg now. He screamed, reflexively releasing Malfoy and dropping to the ground to cradle the wounded appendage.

 

“What are you doing?!” Malfoy yelled at him, wheeling around to send a curse back to its caster. “Get up!”

 

Harry tried, he really did, but the pain was overwhelming. He collapsed back with a cry. “I can’t.”

 

“Yes you damn well can!” Malfoy shot out spells in quick succession, but they could both tell that even the complex defence he wove wasn’t going to hold out for long.

 

“Go on, then,” Harry forced out through gritted teeth. “Just go, you’re almost there.”

 

Malfoy shot him an unreadable look and stayed where he was, standing between Harry and the Death Eaters who were swiftly closing in. For a few moments Harry could only stare at him stupidly – surely Malfoy had to know that Voldemort’s goons wouldn’t risk losing _Boy Who Lived_ just to prevent him from escaping. So why wasn’t he making use of this chance?

 

Based on the sickening throbs of pain radiating from his ankle, which had been joined by a host of complaints from older injuries no longer willing to be ignored, Harry wasn’t going to be able to get up any time soon. Malfoy was risking himself needlessly and futilely, and it made no sense. Why wouldn’t he just go and leave Harry to his fate? He’d never shown an inclination towards such reckless, _Gryffindorish,_ bravery before now.

 

A curse broke through Malfoy’s shield, slicing a gash across his shoulder. Blood spattered over the pavement. Malfoy grunted, but he swiftly retaliated with “ _Furnunculus_!” causing the offender to break out in painful boils. “ _Relashio! Confringo! Reducto! Incendio!_ ”

 

The extreme heat generated by Malfoy’s conflagration of spells was temporarily driving back the attackers, but Harry couldn’t see how it would help in the long run-

 

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” Malfoy snapped. Harry was jerked into the air, and before he could utter so much as an _oomph_ of surprise he was sent hurtling backwards by the banishing charm they’d been taught in fourth-year Charms class: “ _Repulso_!”

 

He sailed through the wards and landed in a familiar-looking flower bed – Aunt Petunia’s agapanthuses, he was dismayed to realise. They had been growing there for as long as Harry could remember and were the pride of her garden, she was going to be furious-

 

Malfoy’s unearthly scream of pain brought Harry’s attention sharply back to the matter at hand. In the moment of distraction it had taken to send Harry to safety, Malfoy’s defences had faltered and a Cruciatus curse had broken through. Harry knew that lonely, debilitating agony all too well.

 

He didn’t know if he was strong enough, but he had to do something-

 

“ _ACCIO DRACO MALFOY_!”

 

The instant drain of his power was shocking and as the lighter object in the equation it was nearly Harry who was tugged back toward Malfoy. He dug in stubbornly, bracing his good foot against the brick border of the flowerbed, seizing the windowsill above and behind him with his non-wand hand, screaming with the effort of maintaining the spell. His body felt as though it were being torn apart in a tug-of-war between giants, he was afraid he couldn’t hold on much longer-

 

Malfoy’s tortured shrieks abruptly ended as his body shot across the ground, pursued by jets of light that splashed against an invisible barrier when Malfoy crossed the wards.

 

Then the flaw in Harry’s plan struck him. Literally.

 

Malfoy’s body slammed into him with bone-crunching force. Luckily Malfoy had regained the use of his faculties enough to hastily scramble off him, because Harry was thoroughly incapable of moving. He could barely breathe.

 

“We’ll get you yet,” one of the masked figures growled.

 

Following this threatening pronouncement, knowing they were defeated for the moment, the Death Eaters all quickly Disapparated.

 

The street fell silent.

 

ooOOoo

  
The Ministry of Magic was in a state of barely disguised chaos. Cornelius Fudge had been ousted as Minister, but even the more competent Rufus Scrimgeour was struggling to hold them all together as Death Eaters and Dementors and giants rained death and destruction over Britain. The latest, dreadful blow had been the murder of Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and a personal friend of Mafalda Hopkirk’s.

 

So it was little wonder, really, that when the alarms indicating underage sorcery in a Muggle area started blaring in her office, Mafalda was most certainly not in the mood for it. Even less so, when the parchment and quill linked to The Trace detailed that the latest occurrence was in a location all too familiar – Privet Drive.

 

It was Potter again.

 

This was what, the fourth time that the delinquent had broken the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery? He had been cleared of all charges last year, so apparently he assumed he could get away with anything now.

 

Mafalda muttered and grumbled to herself about celebrities getting special treatment as she dug through her files, searching for the document that had recently been sent to her by Albus Dumbledore. Something to do with a visit Dumbledore had made to the Dursley residence on the 3rd of July, permitting the use of magic there for a short duration, and then an explanation that a guard duty had been assigned over Potter, so mature-aged wizards were expected to be in the vicinity.

 

It might not be Potter using magic, then. But given his past record Mafalda didn’t feel very inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

She went through a mental list of all the personnel that would be required to once again cover up Potter’s misdeeds. Obliviators very likely, probably a member of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad if this was anything like what had happened two summers ago, or the Magical Catastrophe Reversal Squad if Potter had done this deliberately…

 

In the background, the quill scribbled away frantically.

 

She started writing yet another admonitory letter to Mr Potter, then finally glanced at The Trace parchment so she could note down what magic he had used and when.

 

At the sight of the rapidly growing list, Mafalda’s jaw dropped. The first spell, Alohomora, was innocuous enough, but the rest of them were largely combat spells – curses and jinxes and hexes, their counters, shield and defensive spells… She was mildly gratified to see that Muggle-repelling charms had been set up early on, but the point remained that a wizards’ battle seemed to be taking place right in the middle of a Muggle neighbourhood. Unless Potter was just practicing his Defence Against the Dark Arts skills – but the speed and severity of the spells suggested otherwise.

 

The Boy Who Lived was under attack.

 

Mafalda burst from her office, sending a flock of urgent memos to everyone she had mentally listed earlier as well as a number of Aurors, since it was almost certain that they would be coming up against Death Eaters. She even threw in a few medi-witches for good measure, gathering them all in the Apparition chamber of the Ministry and sending them off to Privet Drive. She sincerely hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

 

ooOOoo  


Now that the desperate fight for his life was over, Draco felt the terror-induced shakes set in and found he had to concentrate on controlling his bladder.

 

No one had ever tried to kill him before.

 

His father had insisted after second year’s failed Hogwarts duelling club that Draco receive formal training during the summer breaks, so Draco had not been completely out of his depth during this battle. But he was a Slytherin. Slytherins were not designed to participate in open warfare against an enemy that held greater numbers. One-on-one was fine, or even one-on-three against unskilled opponents. The odds in this case, however, had been horrifically uneven; it was a miracle that they had both made it out alive.

 

Draco didn’t feel too good, though. And Potter looked worse.

 

He opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t exactly sure where he could possibly begin. He wasn’t going to admit that he’d acted foolishly when he’d run out into the street and he didn’t particularly want to thank Potter for coming after him, even though if he hadn’t Draco would have been captured or killed by now. He wasn’t supposed to care if Potter was okay or not, so it wouldn’t do to ask, and he was much better at giving insults than compliments so he could hardly express admiration for Potter’s fighting ability. So what to say?

 

An almighty CRACK like a thunderbolt shattered the awkward silence, as no fewer than 20 witches and wizards Apparated into Privet Drive.

 

Potter flinched, bringing his wand up defensively in a hand that trembled with exhaustion. Draco would have raised his own wand, but he knew they were finally safe behind the wards and he recognised in any event that these new arrivals weren’t Death Eaters. 

 

“Calm down, Potter,” he said, smirking half-heartedly. “It’s just the rescue team turning up ten minutes too late.”

 

Potter’s arm dropped back down into his lap and he closed his eyes with a relieved sigh. “Good,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t looking forward to… cleaning up… this mess… by myself.”

 

Surveying the scene, Malfoy realised that the once obsessively neat and orderly street no longer matched this description.  Letter boxes had been obliterated, miniature craters pock-marked the road, squares of pavement were singed and blackened, gardens had been damaged, and rubble and the remains of conjured or Transfigured objects littered the entire area. The Muggles would have collective heart attacks if they saw it, he was sure.

 

“There he is!” a man suddenly exclaimed, pointing in their direction.

 

“Potter!” “Harry Potter!” “He’s alive!” “What happened?” “Isn’t that the Malfoy lad?” “Death Eater spawn!” “He was probably the one who attacked Potter!” “Are you sure Potter’s alive?” “Oi! Get away from him!”

 

The crowd of Ministry personnel surged forward, but those of them in the lead suddenly rebounded off the magical barrier surrounding Number Four, knocking back the people behind them.

 

Draco felt concern rise within him – why would these people intend Potter harm? The Dark Lord couldn’t have infiltrated the Ministry so effectively already, could he?

 

“The wards… protect you too, now, Malfoy…” Potter explained hoarsely. “They can’t… get through if… they mean to harm… any of the inhabitants… of this house.” Raising his voice with an apparent effort, Potter called out, “It’s alright, Malfoy’s with me. They attacked both of us, but they’re gone now.”

 

“You sure he had nothing to do with this?” an Auror asked sceptically.

 

“Unless idiocy is a crime now,” Potter muttered under his breath. “Yes, I’m sure,” he confirmed in a louder voice.

 

The wards permitted entry, then, and soon they were surrounded by a mass of people shouting questions at them from all directions.

 

Potter winced at the onslaught of noise, causing Draco to yell for quiet.

 

“Honestly, how to you imbeciles expect to get any answers when you’re all talking over one another?” he drawled in his most arrogant tone once he was able to be heard. “Are any of you actually qualified to respond to situations like this and run investigations, or has the Ministry become so desperate they’ve started hiring anyone with a trace of magic off the streets, untrained or otherwise?”

 

Some flushed with anger, others appeared embarrassed by their behaviour.

 

“First thing first, then,” an authoritative figure spoke up. “Has the immediate danger passed?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And are either of you injured?” a medi-witch asked.

 

Draco ran a quick mental inventory over himself. “I have a few cuts and bruises, some minor burns, and-” he gingerly reached up to touch his blood-soaked sleeve “-a rather deep gash on my shoulder. But I’m fine for the most part,” he reported. “Potter, on the other hand…”

 

Potter flashed an expression of irritation that was rather uncalled for in Draco’s opinion. “I twisted my ankle, that’s all,” he said shortly.

 

“And flying pigs frequently disturb Quidditch matches,” Draco retorted. “You’re having trouble breathing and, if I’m not mistaken, suffering from magical exhaustion for the second time in a week.”

 

The medi-witches present all tut-tutted and their leader said, “Let’s get you both checked out and fixed up then, shall we? Questions can wait.”

 

As privacy screens were conjured around them, Draco heard various instructions called out. “Search the area for any lingering threats”, “Check for any Muggles that may have seen what happened”, “Sheer up those repelling and obscuring charms, they’re on the verge of collapsing”, “Get to work on cleaning up this mess, we want it to look like nothing out of the ordinary took place here tonight.”

 

“Mr Malfoy, was it?”

 

He looked up at the plump witch with a kindly demeanour and a mess of curly brown hair haphazardly pinned back who had spoken, refocusing his attention. “Yes,” he replied and added, “Draco.”

 

She offered a warm smile. “Draco. My name is Isabelle Mauldwin, but most people just call me Isy.”

 

Mauldwin. It wasn’t a pureblood name, yet Draco found himself already preferring her to the cold and professional Malfoy family private physician. She made him feel more at ease, somehow.

 

She conjured a soft gurney and invited him to sit down. “Now dear, before we get started I’m just going to run a diagnostic charm to make sure we don’t miss anything. It may feel slightly uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt.”

 

Draco was familiar with the procedure. A gently pulsing yellow light appeared at the end of Isy’s wand, expanding into a small bubble-like sphere. Isy touched a sheet of parchment to it, which then pulled away from her fingers to hover in the air, waiting expectantly. A flick of her wrist and the sphere released from the wand, coming to rest on his head for a moment before diffusing into his body. His skin tingled with the sensation of a thousand tiny ants travelling in a spreading wave just below the surface. As each injury was reached, the area warmed and green writing appeared on the parchment, cataloguing the type and location. Within a few minutes the odd feeling had reached his toes, and then the sphere appeared again, moving to the parchment and transforming into a seal of confirmation that the diagnosis was complete.

 

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Isy said, taking a moment to read the parchment.

 

Draco could hear Potter’s voice coming from the next makeshift cubicle. His tone was low but insistent – he seemed to be giving his Healer a difficult time.

 

“…don’t need it…it’s just my ankle…fix it and I’ll be fine… don’t care what Malfoy said…that isn’t necessary…”

 

“All easily repaired,” Isy told Draco cheerfully. “I think we’ll start with your shoulder, since that has to be hurting the most.” Draco nodded and she carefully rolled up the bloodied sleeve. A gentle swish of her wand and the incantation “Tergeo” cleaned the excess blood from his skin so she could see the wound more clearly. Positioning the tip of her wand a few millimetres above the gash, she drew it along slowly, chanting a few soothing words. As the wand passed, his flesh felt first hot then cold, knitting together in an accelerated version of the usual healing process.

 

“But _Mr Potter_ it is our job to be thorough!” exclaimed a nearby, agitated voice.

 

Isy paused, looking up in surprise. “Is this your friend’s first time being examined by a non-Muggle Healer?” she asked bemusedly.

 

Draco bristled at the presumption of friendship, but he did know the answer to her question. “No. Madam Pomfrey has had to fix him up plenty of times at school.”

 

“Ah.” A reminiscent smile crossed her lips. “Well, I can’t imagine Poppy having any trouble with him. She’s been dealing with stubborn students for years.” She continued on with her task, cleaning and patching up the various scraps and cuts along his arms, applying orange burn-healing paste to a patch of skin that had been caught by his own reflected spell and gently rubbing in bruise salve where needed.

 

“Your back is rather scraped up too, Draco,” she informed him once all the more accessible areas had been tended to. “Do you mind if I temporarily transfigure your t-shirt into a hospital gown?”

 

He waved a hand casually. “Go ahead.” A small part of his brain was pleased with himself for acting so cool over all of this, while Potter was throwing a toddler tantrum next door.

 

“ _Finite Incantatem_!” he heard Potter snap, followed by an offended-sounding “Well, _really_!”

 

Isy was doing her best to ignore the dramatic scene evidently playing out between Potter and her fellow Healer. “How did you manage this, then?” she asked once the injuries on his back were visible. “It looks sore.”

 

Draco twisted as though to look at it for himself, then thought better of it as he felt a painful twinge at the movement. “I was dragged across the ground by a summoning charm,” he explained.

 

“Ouch,” she sympathised, beginning her healing ritual.

 

“Yeah, well, considering he was pulling me away from a Crutiatus Curse, I suppose Potter can be forgiven.”

 

At the reminder of what had been done to him, Draco shuddered. The curse was aptly named – that pain had been more excruciating than anything he could have ever imagined and it felt like eternities passed while he was under that curse, like it would never end and he would surely go mad from the unbridled agony flooding through his veins. _Nothing,_ nothing at all, could possibly compare. In truth, he’d barely felt his body dragging roughly over tarmac and concrete after that – all he’d known was that the terrible pain had stopped.

 

It was a moment before he realised that Isy had frozen in shock at his pronouncement.

 

“Cruciatus – on a child – why those evil, twisted – how could they – barely fifteen years old-”

 

“Sixteen,” Draco said automatically. Silently, though, he was remembering what his father had told him about the night the Dark Lord had risen again; Voldemort had used Crucio on Potter during their duel. Potter would have only been fourteen at the time. Draco had laughed at the retelling of how Potter had screamed; now he felt sick.

 

“Sixteen, sorry dear,” Isy said quietly, placing a soft hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. It was more a comforting gesture than an apology and it made the child inside him long for his mother’s arms to sooth away the hurt and the memories. “But you said it was Harry Potter who used the Summoning Charm on you?” she diverted as she resumed her work. “That was a powerful bit of magic for a teenager. Unless they cast an anti-gravity charm first, even most adults have trouble using _Accio_ to call objects heavier than themselves.”

 

Heavier? Draco was tall and slender… but he supposed Potter _was_ lighter than he was, given that he was shorter. Skinnier, too, Draco thought, although Potter’s extremely baggy clothes made that harder to determine. How Potter had avoided the obesity that had overtaken his uncle and cousin was a mystery, since they seemed to eat such rich foods so regularly, and in such vast quantities. Although, come to think of it, he hadn’t actually witnessed Potter eating these holidays so he didn’t know what portion size he took.

 

“He is powerful,” Draco agreed absently. It wasn’t something he would usually admit, but given what he knew and what he’d seen, and even some of what he suspected, there was no denying that Potter was a powerful wizard. He’d defeated the Dark Lord as a baby – or at least caused him a major long-term set back – and survived encounters with him (in various forms) four times hence. He was capable of fighting off Death Eaters who were saturated in the Dark Arts and had nothing holding them back, and had proven himself against them a number of times, tonight only the most recent. There was the matter of Potter’s accidental magic too, and his remarkable control over it – which defied the very definition of the term.

 

“Well, he’s supposed to be the ‘Chosen One’ isn’t he?” Isy commented, her tone somewhat awed as though she had only just realised that she had been sent to assist such a famous figurehead of the wizarding world. Draco wanted to roll his eyes – bloody Potter and his fame again. “Rumour has it there’s even a prophecy about him,” Isy continued excitedly. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

 

“No,” Draco said slowly. Now she had mentioned it, though, he was intrigued. _Was_ there a prophecy? Did Potter know about it? What did it say? Was it about Potter and the Dark Lord? Were their fates intertwined by more than just that fateful Halloween night so many years ago?

 

“… doctor/patient confidentiality exist… wizarding world?” Potter’s voice could be heard to ask, more calmly now, more resigned. “…fine, then. Do what… have to… but… must promise… tell no one.”

 

 _Tell no one what?_ Malfoy wanted to know. Potter was piquing his interest again, with all sorts of hinted-at secrets just waiting to be uncovered.

 

He listened in more closely now and heard the diagnostic charm being cast. That was what Potter had been objecting to all this time? Why?

 

A sharp gasp.

 

“Not a word!” Potter ordered. Was that a note of panic in his voice?

 

“But – I can’t believe – what – who – Mr Potter, this is extremely serious business, I have to notify-”

 

“No! Not a word, to anyone! Just… and then… it never happened.”

 

“But Mr Potter-”

 

“No. You swore and I am holding you to it.” The threat of magic washed through the air. Potter was serious about this, it seemed. Ah well, Draco always did appreciate a challenge.

 

“But it could take me hours, you need proper-”

 

“Just do whatever you can in the next few minutes; we don’t have long before the Aurors lose patience and want to know what happened.”

 

“ _I_ want to know what happened,” the medi-witch muttered, but soon fell quiet except for the murmuring of healing spells.

 

Isy coughed. “All done here now, Draco.” A wave of her wand returned the hospital gown to its prior state and an additional wiggle and flick removed the blood and rips from the t-shirt.

 

Draco stretched experimentally and was pleased to note that nothing hurt anymore. “Thank you, Healer Mauldwin,” he said formally, dipping his head. “I feel much better.”

 

“My pleasure, dear,” she smiled at him.

 

The privacy screens around them dropped at a swish from her wand, transfiguring back into a couple of pebbles.

 

“Your friend might be a tad longer,” Isy said, mild amusement colouring her tone as she gestured to the screens that still hid Potter from view. He nodded, having already come to the same conclusion himself.

 

“Mr Malfoy.” A tall Auror, whose stern expression was emphasised by the jagged scar curving down his jawline, strode forward determinedly. Draco recognised him as the man who had spoken up earlier and deduced that he was in charge of this unit. “I trust you are prepared to answer some questions now?”

 

There was no time like the present, Draco supposed. “Yes, sir. Healer Mauldwin here did excellent work.”

 

She blushed at his praise and bustled away to tend to other duties.

 

“Firstly, Mr Malfoy, would you care to explain your presence here tonight?”

 

Draco hid a frown. Hadn’t Potter already vouched for him? Some prejudices were apparently difficult to break, even for the Boy Who Lived.

 

“I am staying with Potter and his family for the summer holidays. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks now – ask Potter if you want.”

 

“I intend to,” the Auror said darkly. “And why, exactly, would the son of a Death Eater be welcome in the home of You-Know-Who’s sworn enemy?”

 

Draco straightened and levelled a glare at the man. “My father may be a Death Eater, but I am not. I would think the fact that the Dark Lord’s followers tried to either kill or capture me less than half an hour ago should be testament to that.”

 

“So you’re saying that you-” his upper lip curled into a sneer “-are on You-Know-Who’s hit list.”

 

Oh, Draco really wished he hadn’t said it like that. It sounded so clear cut; the Dark Lord intended to kill him, he was just a name on a list waiting for his turn to be murdered. Fear clenched in his gut.

 

“I guess so,” Draco replied as calmly as he could.

 

The Auror grunted. “So take me through what happened.”

 

Draco shifted ever so slightly in discomfort. “I was standing at the edge of the wards,” he gestured to the place, “and something drew me out into the street.” It wasn’t a lie, as such, it was just misleading. The need for freedom, a spell, it didn’t make much of a difference. “A Death Eater was waiting for me.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t know. He was wearing a mask.” It was an interesting question, though, because Draco knew most of the Death Eaters, one way or another. He wondered if it could have been Crabbe’s or Goyle’s father, or a relation of his. People he’d met, associated with, come to know, now out to get him. It was a harrowing thought.

 

“And he attacked you?”

 

“Yes. He shot a stunning spell at me – I guess with the intention of knocking me unconscious so he could transport me back to… to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

 

Something Potter had said came back to him, echoing in his head almost tauntingly, a reminder of his stupidity. _‘He’ll kill you straight off if you’re lucky. But, speaking from past experience, I reckon he’ll Crucio you a couple of times first. Maybe it’ll send you mad.’_

 

Merlin, why hadn’t he remembered Potter’s warning _before_ leaving the safety of Number Four? If the Death Eater had managed to pull it off, Draco would probably be sprawled at the Dark Lord’s feet right now screaming his guts out. Or dead.

 

“I take it he didn’t succeed.” The Auror nearly sounded disappointed.

 

“Well I defended myself, didn’t I?” Draco said haughtily, ignoring the tiny voice that tried to point out that Potter had actually been the one to deflect that first spell.

 

“And how did Mr Potter come into all this?”

 

Draco started, thinking irrationally for a moment that the Auror had read his mind. “He, uh, was drawn out too.” By some insane Gryffindorish sense of bravado or desire to get in on the action. “Then more Death Eaters turned up.”

 

“How many?”

 

He tried to remember, but it had all been happening so fast. “At least ten, maybe more. I don’t know, for certain.”

 

“He’s been recruiting, then,” the Auror muttered. “Okay, so what happened then?”

 

“We fought and made it back through the wards around this house.” Draco shrugged, not caring to add any more detail. He didn’t want to remember the heart-pounding terror, thank you very much. “The Death Eaters left and a minute later you all turned up. Thanks for the help, by the way.”

 

A low growl began deep in the man’s throat, but before he could say anything another wizard came running up. “Mr Marshall, sir, we found a body!” he announced breathlessly.

 

“A Death Eater?” Marshall asked, shooting Draco a look.

 

Draco thought it unlikely, because neither himself nor Potter had used any lethal spells during the battle. They had reflected a few, he supposed…

 

“No, sir, I don’t think so. It looks like one of Dumbledore’s men, sir. And one of the Healers said he’s been dead for over an hour now. An A.K. she thinks it was it was.”

 

It had to be the Order member who was supposed to be standing guard, Draco realised. No wonder backup hadn’t turned up any earlier. He had wondered about that, but it hadn’t been the most pressing thing on his mind at the time.

 

Marshall strode away to see for himself. Part of Draco was morbidly curious, but he decided to stay where he was.

 

The clean-up operation was going well, he noticed. Most of the street was back to its normal, boring self. Draco thought that leaving a few of the battle scars may have made the area look a bit more interesting, but there was the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to consider. In his experience so far, though, Muggles were inestimably stupid. They probably couldn’t work out what was behind the destruction of their street even if a spell had engraved ‘Wizards were here’ in the ground for them, clear as day.

 

“Mr Potter, I still think you should let me-”

 

“No, you’ve done quite enough, thank you.”

 

Draco turned to see that the remaining privacy screens had been knocked aside and Potter was marching towards him with a harried-looking medi-witch trailing in his wake. At least his ankle had been repaired and he seemed to be moving easier in general.

 

“They found a body?” Potter asked shortly.

 

“Yeah, the Order guy supposed to be on the lookout tonight,” Draco told him.

 

A pang of distress shot through Potter’s emerald eyes and he looked toward the group crowding around the body before glaring at his toes. “Someone else I killed.”

 

“You killed?” Draco questioned. “I’m fairly sure a Death Eater killed him, Potter; you can’t claim credit for that.”

 

“He died trying to protect me. I practically put him in the target zone and pointed the wand. That’s pretty much the same as me casting the spell myself.”

 

“Hardly, Potter,” Draco drawled, wondering where Potter came up with this nonsense. “Honestly, Gryffindors and their flair for the dramatic.”

 

Potter scowled at him. “Just because _I_ feel a sense of responsibility. I suppose you told them none of this was your fault?”

 

Draco folded his arms, a challenge in his glare. “Are you saying it was?”

 

“Well, unless there was someone wearing an Invisibility Cloak around, from what I saw no one pushed or pulled you out of the protection of the wards. You managed that all on your own. Got a death wish do you?”

 

“I just can’t abide being cooped up all the time!” Draco blurted.

 

Potter’s head tilted to the side, a glimmer of something – understanding? – appearing in his expression. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, almost kindly. “Remembering that school will start up again soon makes it easier.”

 

Draco grunted noncommittally.

 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Potter added. Draco knew he was referring to the fact that he had run out after him, essentially saving his life. It was presumptuous of Potter to think that Draco felt gratitude, he thought, for that _or_ the rescue from the Crutiatus curse. “And I guess I should… thank you,” Potter continued.

 

Draco raised his eyebrows, not quite believing he had just heard those words come out of Potter’s mouth.

 

“For not leaving me alone out there when you could have.”

 

“You’re the one with a hero complex,” Draco retorted, discomforted by the memory of what he had done and what it had cost him. “I just didn’t want to be indebted to the bloody Golden Boy of Gryffindor.”

 

Potter nodded.

 

The head Auror returned to ask a few more questions. Potter corroborated the fact that Draco was staying with them and assured the man that they were safe from further attacks as long as they stayed inside.

 

“And you’ll do that, will you?” Marshall asked, with an undisguised look of suspicion aimed in Draco’s direction.

 

“Yes, sir,” Potter answered for the both of them, with an underlying tone of ‘I’ll make sure of it’.

 

Draco resented their assumption that he’d make the same mistake twice, after nearly being killed the first time. No, unless there was an extremely valid reason to leave, like the house burning down because of Potter’s ineptitude in the kitchen, Draco was staying right here until the summer holidays ended. And that day wouldn’t come soon enough.

 

“Very well, Mr Potter,” Marshall relented. “Please remember that you are not to use magic again, except in the case of an emergency, until you return to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Well, I think we’re all finished here, unless you can see anything that we’ve missed boys? You are more familiar with the area, after all.”

 

Potter scanned their surroundings critically. “Looks fine to me,” he said after a minute. “I’d appreciate it if you could fix up the flowerbed back there, though.” He gestured behind him.

 

 _Potter and his gardening!_ Draco though exasperatedly.

 

Marshall frowned. “Non-magical plants don’t automatically heal themselves then, I take it?” At Potter’s shake of the head, he waved his wand at the crushed flowers.

 

Potter pursed his lips slightly at the result, but Draco thought they were fine. Potter was just overly fussy.

 

“That all?” Marshall asked.

 

“Yes, sir. Thank you for all your help.” Potter’s gaze swept the group of Ministry employees, by the gesture extending the thanks to all of them as well. Many looked chuffed after he met their eyes at receiving recognition from the Boy Who Lived for their efforts. Draco sniffed at what he perceived as hero worship. He nodded his appreciation toward Isy, though, and she beamed at him.

 

“Stay safe, Mr Potter. These are dark times for all of us.”

 

Potter shook the proffered hand, then the adults left the boundary of Number Four and Disapparated.

 

Potter blew out a heavy sigh. “Let’s not do this again soon, okay Malfoy?”

 

Draco nodded, not particularly keen for a repeat either. “I suppose my dinner will be cold,” he said, turning back towards the house and realising for the first time how hungry he was.

 

Potter snorted. “Yeah, I’d say so.” Before ascending the step to the front door, Potter turned as though he’d forgotten something. “Better take down those Muggle-repelling charms or the inhabitants of Privet Drive could be stuck inside indefinitely,” he explained.

 

Draco grinned at the mental image of a street full of Muggles stuck in a perpetual cycle of approaching their windows or doors with the intention of looking or going outside, and then suddenly remembering something urgent they had yet to do inside the house.

 

“ _Finite Repello Muggletum_ ,” Potter said, taking all the fun out of it.

 

“Trust you to think of that in the middle of a battle,” Draco said grumpily, “and not as a brilliant practical joke.”

 

Potter just looked at him.

 

“Right. Inside.”

 

They entered the house to find Potter’s uncle standing in the hallway, glaring at them. Behind him, the door to what Draco presumed was a cupboard under the stairs was swinging on its hinges.

 

Potter seemed to shrink in on himself, losing the proud posture and confident air, the fearless attitude. The difference was startling, all the more because Draco had never noticed it until this point. Outside just then, Potter had been the Gryffindor ideal: strong, courageous, determined, assertive. This was a different version of Potter altogether, looking much more like Neville Longbottom facing Professor Snape than the Boy Who Lived.

 

“Your dinner is in your bedroom, Malfoy,” Potter said quietly.

 

He was being dismissed and he didn’t understand why. But he took the hint anyway, climbing the stairs to his room and shutting the door behind him.

  
ooOOoo


	9. Denial

 

Once Malfoy had left, Harry felt very small and alone. Uncle Vernon was furious, purple faced and eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.

 

Harry looked down, unable to meet his uncle’s glare, and blanched when he saw that he was still holding his wand.

 

“Put. It. Away.” Uncle Vernon ordered. “Right now. Or I will snap it in half and burn it to ashes, like I should have done from the moment you first dared to bring it into this house.”

 

Harry nodded wordlessly, knowing that it was no idle threat, edging around his uncle to set his wand carefully on the shelf in the cupboard. He closed the door, only then noticing that the lock had burst into a dozen metal fragments that were now scattered on the floor. He swallowed.

 

Vernon shoved him out of the way and bolted the cupboard shut with a bigger, heavier padlock. “You _dare_ to open that again this summer and you’ll be sorry, boy.”

 

“Yes, sir,” he replied, barely able to put enough strength into his voice to be heard. His hands were shaking.

 

Vernon rounded on him. “So your _government_ doesn’t see fit to punish you for performing your freakishness outside your freak school anymore, is that right? Well let me tell you, boy, that there are certain rules in this house and you have just _blatantly_ disobeyed them.”

 

“They would have killed him if I hadn’t,” Harry said.

 

“And didn’t you say that you would take responsibility for him? To make sure something like this _wouldn’t_ happen?”

 

Harry looked down, shoulders hunched. So it _had_ been his fault after all. He shouldn’t have been surprised; it was always his fault. “I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon. But none of the neighbours saw, I promise they didn’t.”

 

“And you think that makes it okay, boy? As long as you live under this roof, taking advantage of my wife’s protection, you will bloody well learn to DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD!” His fist came up in a swing and connected solidly with the side of Harry’s head, spinning him with the severity of the blow. He hit the wall. “There will be NO bloody magic anywhere in or near this house, do you understand me?”

 

“Ye-” A hard punch was delivered to his lower back. He gasped, falling to his knees.

 

He heard the belt being unbuckled and the unspoken order behind it.

 

He pulled off his shirt and for the first time since he’d arrived back at Privet Drive the action didn’t hurt him. He knew the feeling wouldn’t last, and the absence of half-healed welts would only incense Vernon further. Harry had tried to stop the Healer, but she had refused to listen, she couldn’t just leave well enough alone, and now she knew, no one was supposed to know, if Uncle Vernon found out-

 

The huge man behind him had gone very still, staring at the expanse of unblemished skin.

 

“Who healed you?” his voice was low and more deadly than Harry had ever heard it.

 

No one was supposed to know. Even before the rule about not asking questions, this rule was first and foremost in the Dursley household for Harry. Tell no one, show no one. He knew the rule, he had never, ever told anyone, but this Healer, she wouldn’t stop! She wouldn’t take no for an answer.

 

“I did,” Harry lied desperately, praying that his uncle would believe him. “Just like the time I grew my hair back overnight after Aunt Petunia cut it. I healed myself, but I didn’t mean to…”

 

Vernon growled, hating to be reminded of Harry’s freakishness, and brought down the belt with a sharp _crack_.

 

Relief flooded Harry. Uncle Vernon hadn’t questioned his story. He was safe.

 

_CRACK._

It hurt, but the pain was familiar, more familiar than the sensation of being pain-free had been. The Healer still wasn’t satisfied, even though she had healed the stripes on his back, the torn muscle in his ankle, the fractured ribs, and reset the broken nose properly. She said there was still deep bruising and he was severely undernourished and magically exhausted besides. She would be even less happy now, Harry supposed, because Uncle Vernon was ruining all her hard work. But honestly, he couldn’t understand why she had been inclined to kick up such a huge fuss. She probably wanted to know why the famous Harry Potter, purported future Hero of the Wizarding world, was in fact such a troublemaker at home. He wasn’t living up to the legend that had been created about him.

 

_CRACK._

 

She had sworn not to tell anyone, though. He needed her to hold to that promise. He wasn’t just Dumbledore’s version of cannon fodder for Voldemort, he represented a hope that the wizarding world desperately needed right now. If they knew the truth about him, they would have nothing to hold on to anymore, no faint promise for a victory against He-Who-Made-Them-Live-In-Fear.

 

_CRACK._

 

Inadvertently he yelped as the tail of the belt whipped around and struck him on the cheek, which immediately earned him a harder blow for daring to make a sound during his punishment.

 

He had no idea that, halfway down the stairs with a plate of cold food that he intended to try to heat up or have Potter heat for him, Malfoy heard the short cry and froze in place. He heard the sharp cracks of leather snapping through the air and hitting flesh; he recognised it from the times his father had taken a more physical approach to admonishing the house elves.

 

Not quite believing, suspecting the noisy Muggle boxes that weren’t portraits had to be responsible, Malfoy peered over the banister. He recoiled so quickly that he nearly dropped the plate.

 

He hadn’t just seen what he thought he did. His eyes, and ears, were playing tricks on him. He was sure of it.

 

He didn’t dare to check again, retreating quickly back up to his room. Cold food suddenly sounded delicious.

 

ooOOoo

  
Draco awoke early the next morning, having spent most of the night tossing and turning restlessly. He gave up on the idea of trying to sleep in, since as soon as he was even remotely conscious his brain whirred into motion and refused to be quieted. It was barely six o’clock by the time he was washed and dressed, but when he went downstairs he discovered that Potter was already up and about.

 

He was dusting the lounge room.

 

And Draco thought: _There is something not quite right about all of this._

 

“Morning Potter,” he said civilly, reclining on one of the couches.

 

Potter started, eyes darting up from his task. When he saw who it was, his expression morphed into the equivalent of ‘Oh, it’s just you’. “Morning,” he responded bemusedly. “A little early for you, isn’t it, Malfoy?”

 

Draco cast about for a logical explanation. “Well, there was a point last night where I wasn’t sure I would ever see another sunrise, so I thought I’d watch it today.” He shrugged a little self-consciously, realising what he’d just said. He did love seeing the sun come up and all the stunning colours that would spread across the sky, but he rarely made the effort to wake up early enough. It was a shame he’d missed it, actually, now that the thought had occurred to him, because it had probably happened less than ten minutes before he’d woken.

 

Potter looked almost saddened by his words. “I used to love them, too,” he said quietly.

 

“Not anymore?” Draco asked, wondering how the sight could ever get old. To him, few things were more beautiful, and his family’s enormous wealth meant that he had innumerable tapestries and paintings and statues and material treasures to compare it to. Nothing quite seemed to measure up.

 

Potter shrugged, absently flicking his duster at the frozen photos on the mantelpiece. “It just means the start of another day.”

 

Draco frowned but let it go. Maybe Potter was more of a sunset person. “Then why are _you_ up so early?”

 

Another rise and drop of the shoulders. Was that a hint of a grimace on Potter’s face? “Habit, I guess.”

 

Habit. To wake up before six every morning and do… housework? Then make breakfast for his family. Then clean the kitchen and dining room. Then do more housework or gardening until it was time to make lunch, then clean up once more and continue working until dinner. Then after dinner, do more work around the house until later than Draco retired to bed. Every day of these holidays that Draco had been here, it was the same basic pattern, except for the occasional letter-writing session which seemed deliberately structured into the routine as well.

 

No time taken to relax. No time set aside for himself. No time spent doing anything recreational, such as reading or even staring at the strange Muggle contraption that his relatives seemed to enjoy so much.

 

This was not the way a normal person would spend their vacation.

 

The Dursleys didn’t act as though Potter was doing anything unusual, so it couldn’t just be that this particular summer he was trying to drown out his grief over Sirius Black by working so much that he wouldn’t have the chance to think about it. Potter’s bedroom, when he’d seen it, had been moderately untidy so it couldn’t be that Potter was a perfectionistic neat freak. It couldn’t be that Potter honestly enjoyed it, because he never so much as smiled or hummed as he worked.

 

No one else in the family, apart from Potter’s aunt on rare occasion, ever lifted a finger to help him or even offered to assist.

 

Draco remembered asking on his first day how Muggles managed to function without house elves, but the Dursleys didn’t seem to need one. Potter fulfilled the role eerily well.

 

In his mind’s eye, Draco was comparing an image of Potter with one of the Malfoy house elves and he found disturbing similarities. The tattered and stained pillowcase that Torry wore, Potter’s too-large clothes that were in a similar state. Their postures, when Potter stood in front of his uncle, when Torry stood in front of Draco’s father. Their expressionless eyes as they went about their work and the type of work that they did. Their nervous attention to every small detail. Torry’s self-inflicted punishments, Potter’s frequent and damaging ‘clumsy’ spells. Since when was a skilled Quidditch Seeker clumsy, anyway? And for that matter, Potter had never displayed a propensity for clumsiness at school – that was usually Longbottom’s forte.

 

It was all leading back to what he’d seen – no, what he’d _thought_ he’d seen – last night. But he refused to believe it. It was unthinkable. Impossible. He was just blowing things out of proportion, imagining things.

 

No one but a Death Eater, or the Dark Lord himself, would dare to even think of mistreating the famous Harry Potter. Certainly not his own relatives, who were tied to him through bonds of blood. They were his family; his only family. Even if they didn’t express their affection in overt ways – such as through expensive gifts, like Draco’s father, or through spending quality time together, like Draco’s mother – he was sure that they did care for him.

 

Besides, if the Muggles had a – negative – inclination towards Potter, Dumbledore would surely know about it by now and have taken action to change the situation. Potter’s nosy friends, at the very least, would have noticed if anything was wrong with his home life, and Draco had no doubt that Granger would report it immediately. In addition, Potter had attended Hogwarts for five years and none of the teachers trained to recognise the signs had picked up anything of the sort from Potter. Though Draco might not have confidence in most of the professors, Professor Snape had an uncanny knack for identifying those Slytherins who came from troubled families within a week of their arrival at the school.

 

There was no chance that Potter was being mistreated. Draco was sure of it.

 

He nodded firmly to himself, relieved to have come to this well-reasoned conclusion. He chose to ignore the inkling of doubt that remained, shoving it to the back of his mind.

 

“Do you have to stare at me like that?”

 

Draco jerked, startled out of his thoughts to discover that he’d just spent the past half hour watching Potter work. This in itself might not have come across as peculiar, except for the fact that he hadn’t delivered any insults or sarcastic comments for the duration.

 

“I wasn’t staring at _you_ ,” he lied. “Your unsightly visage is simply interrupting my otherwise pleasant view.”

 

Potter’s eyebrows lifted. “Of what?”

 

Too late, Draco realised that the curtains were still drawn over the windows. “The delightful array of family photos, of course,” Draco drawled in answer, noticing anew the frozen images on the mantelpiece that Potter had recently dusted.

 

Potter didn’t look terribly convinced, but Draco had stopped paying attention to him, his gaze caught by an unsettling pattern in the photographs that he had never spotted before.

 

Potter’s cousin. Potter’s aunt and uncle. Potter’s cousin with his mother, Potter’s cousin with his father. The three Muggles together. Potter’s cousin again. The Dursleys in a number of similar combinations at different ages. Some pictures even included a few people that Draco didn’t recognise but suspected were Dudley’s friends and, by the obesity of one frequently occurring woman, Vernon’s sister.

 

But never – not once – was there a photo of Potter himself.

 

Draco stood up abruptly, marching toward the mantelpiece to get a better look. Potter was never so much as in the background. It was as though he hadn’t been there at all.

 

Draco spun on his heel and exited the room, seeking out the other photographs on display around the small house. Without fail, the pattern repeated itself. There was not a single photo of Potter anywhere except, he remembered, in the small album that Potter kept hidden in his bedroom under a floorboard. Those photographs, as far as Draco had seen during his cursory flick though, had all moved naturally and consisted of scenes shot before Potter’s parents had died. So where was the documentation and visual evidence of the rest of Potter’s childhood? An unknowing person walking into this house would have no idea that Potter even existed.

 

“Malfoy?”

 

Potter had followed him, a sort of nervous confusion showing in his eyes.

 

Hm. Direct questioning wasn’t very Slytherin, but in this case Draco was willing to make an exception. “Where are all the photos of you?”

 

Potter flashed surprise, discomfort, then annoyance. “Why? Hoping to wheedle a signed one off me?”

 

Draco gave him a disgusted look that clearly said ‘Do I look like Colin Creepy to you?’

 

The ghost of a smile touched Potter’s lips at his reaction and Draco realised he’d been had. “You didn’t answer the question,” he growled.

 

Potter shrugged, the discomforted posture returning. “Well, someone has to be behind the camera.”

 

There were so many holes in that statement it wasn’t funny, and Draco couldn’t be bothered calling him on each one because it would take too long. “You have barely made a mark on this house, Potter,” he said instead, “aside from keeping it abnormally clean. If I didn’t know better, I would think you didn’t live here at all.”

 

Potter muttered something under his breath that Draco didn’t quite catch, though part of it sounded like “the Dursley’s wish”.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. Just… we spend more time at school, don’t we? So I guess for me it feels a little more like home than here does.”

 

Draco frowned. “Are you saying you don’t like it here, Potter?” Draco certainly felt no fondness for the place, but surely Potter did after living here for close to fifteen years.

 

“That’s not what I said.” The Slytherin in Draco heard the skilful manner in which Potter had responded, neither confirming nor denying a dislike for his home, while making it sound as though he was disagreeing with Draco’s assumption.

 

“And why do you care, anyway?” Potter continued.

 

Oh. Right. “I don’t,” Draco said dismissively. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

 

He didn’t wait for a reply.

 

ooOOoo

 

Harry was tense for days after Privet Drive’s impromptu battle, but it had less to do with the fact that he had once again been forced to fight for his life – and it _had_ been for his life, because even if the Death Eaters hadn’t intended to kill him right then and there, being captured and taken to Voldemort would have the same result in the end – and more to do with one Draco Malfoy.

 

Harry had definitely preferred it when Malfoy had been keeping to himself, staying out of the way and leaving Harry alone. The battle had changed things. Or maybe the whole letter incident had planted the first seed. Either which way, Malfoy had traded ignoring him for asking more and more questions that Harry had no intention of answering honestly. The greater number of fabrications that he had to invent, though, the weaker they became and Harry was constantly on edge. If Malfoy continued digging, he could stumble across the truth and Harry could hardly imagine anything worse.

 

“Why do you wear such over-large and tatty clothes, Potter?” Malfoy asked one time.

 

 _Because my aunt and uncle prefer to spend all their money on the child they_ chose _to have and I get the leftovers when Dudley’s finished with them,_ Harry thought. “Because I don’t want my good clothes to get dirty while I’m cleaning or working in the garden,” he said out loud.

 

“Why are you the only one who ever does any of the chores around here?”

 

 _Because I have to earn my keep and Dudley would have a major hissy fit if he was ever asked to do any work._ “Because my aunt has to do it by herself the rest of the year, so I thought I’d give her a break over the summer. She deserves a little relaxation.”

 

“How did you get that strange welt on your cheek?”

 

 _Uncle Vernon missed my back during a punishment, possibly by accident, but probably not._ “I was pushing a thin tree branch out of my way and I let go too soon so it snapped back and hit me in the face.”

 

“Why haven’t you got new glasses yet?”

 

 _Are you kidding? The last time Aunt Petunia bought me new glasses was when my Grade 5 teacher told her that the old pair was really too small for me, so she picked some up from a charity bin. These fit fine, so why should she care that they’re held together by spells and Sellotape?_ “It’s a Muggle thing. You can’t just buy a new pair, you have to go to an optometrist so they can test your eyes again and update your prescription if necessary. We’re confined to the house, so obviously a visit to an eye doctor isn’t an option. They’ll last until Hermione can fix them when we get back to school.”

 

“Why do you keep your familiar locked in a cage so much of the time?”

 

 _Because if I didn’t Uncle Vernon would probably break her neck._ “My aunt’s allergic to feathers.”

 

“I just noticed that the locks on your bedroom door are on the outside instead of the inside. What’s the point of that?”

 

 _It allows my relatives to lock me in there for days or even weeks in punishment if I do the wrong thing._ “The person who installed them made a mistake, but they still fulfil their purpose well enough.”

 

“Is it just me, or have you been losing weight?”

 

 _Well, that’s what happens when you go from having three full Hogwarts meals a day to getting a few small morsels and scraps when you’re on your best behaviour._ “It’s just you.”

 

“What’s in the cupboard under the stairs?”

 

 _Pretty much all of my earthly possessions._ “A few antiques that were cluttering up the house but are too valuable to throw away.”

 

“Why haven’t our O.W.L results arrived yet? They should have been here days ago.”

 

Hermione and Ron had both mentioned in their latest letters how they did in their exams and asked him for news of the same, but as far as he knew his either hadn’t come yet or Uncle Vernon, who always read through his letters before passing them onto him, had burned them on sight. It was a throwback to the tradition from his primary school days – the Dursleys didn’t want evidence that Harry had earned better grades than Dudley, so they either swapped the names on the report cards or, more commonly, just burned his to ashes. _I suppose I’ll find out how I went when we get back to school._ “They probably got lost in transit – owls often have more trouble with Muggle locations.”

 

“Why are you limping? I thought the Healer fixed your ankle.”

 

 _Dudley tripped me over again. It’s a common pastime of his and that ankle hasn’t been quite as strong as it used to be since he caused me to break it in fourth grade._ “I tripped.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell your family that your godfather died?”

 

But by that point, Harry had had enough. “IT IS NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!” An uncontrolled burst of power shoved Malfoy back against the wall, knocking the wind – and speech – out of him. “I don’t know what the hell you are trying to achieve by asking all these stupid, pointless questions, but I think I have humoured you long enough! Now _leave me_ the hell ALONE!”

 

Harry stormed up to his bedroom and slammed the door, breathing heavily, pacing angrily, trying to forget all about Malfoy and his irritating, incessant questioning. But it was too late, the damage was already done.

 

_…your godfather died…_

 

Oh god, he had tried so hard not to think about it, to keep it blocked from his mind, to pretend that the heavy grief crowding in at the edges of his awareness wasn’t there. But Malfoy, bloody Malfoy, couldn’t just leave well enough alone. He had to go poking and prying, and dragging up bad memories-

 

_Sirius ducked, laughing at Bellatrix, the jet of red light passing harmlessly over his head. “Come on, you can do better than that!” he yelled – the last words he would ever speak._

 

No, not again, he couldn’t relive this again, he wasn’t going to think about it, he had to think of something else-

_The second jet of light hit Sirius squarely on the chest._

No, no! He had to empty his mind of emotion, be calm, focus on Quidditch, or Exploding Snap with Ron and Hermione, or-

 

 _The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock._  
  


Harry sank onto the bed, the sight of those eyes – just like Cedric, the reality of death so sudden and unexpected, and undeserved, too early – a physical blow to his heart.

 

_It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall… his body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backwards… Fear and surprise mingled on the wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil…_

 

_The echo of a triumphant scream – Bellatrix, revelling in her victory, the murder of her cousin – Harry didn’t want to believe it, he couldn’t –_

 

_“SIRIUS!” Harry yelled. “SIRIUS!”_

_He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must just be behind the curtain; Harry would pull him back out…_

_But as he sprinted toward the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back._

_“There’s nothing you can do, Harry-”_

_“Get him, save him, he’s only just gone through!”_

_“-it’s too late, Harry.”_

_“We can still reach him-” Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go._

_“There’s nothing you can do, Harry… nothing… he’s gone…”_

ooOOoo

 

In the guest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive, Draco’s sleeping form was beginning to shift restlessly. His head tossed back and forth on the pillow and an uncoordinated hand flopped out from under the covers to clap over an exposed ear. It landed heavier than intended, so rather than blocking out the faint noises that had begun to disturb him and allow sleep to reclaim him, Draco’s eyes shot open.

 

His bleary gaze was met with darkness; his hand fumbled across the bedside table, trying to activate the Muggle lantern-type object he knew to be there.

 

Light flared and he winced, then squinted at the clock. The big and little hands were both pointed at the number 2. _Afternoon?_ he wondered dazedly. The latest he was usually capable of sleeping in until was mid-day and he didn’t feel nearly as rested as he should if he had been asleep for so long. In fact, he felt like he’d barely been in bed for a few hours.

 

His sleep-befuddled mind caught up, then, and he realised that it had to be early morning – horribly early. He groaned and turned over, burrowing his head under the pillow in the hopes of returning to his dream.

 

Which is when he heard it. Muffled sounds coming from the bedroom next to him – Potter’s bedroom. The creak of rusty bedsprings, bumps against the wall, stifled mumbling and moaning.

 

Draco’s first inclination was to do his best to ignore it, go back to sleep and then swear loudly at Potter in the morning for waking him at such an ungodly hour.

 

But curiosity got the better of him.

 

For the past few days he had been subtly and not-so-subtly seeking out evidence that would either support or disprove what he’d thought he’d seen the night of the battle between Potter and his uncle. So far he hadn’t encountered anything conclusive and hadn’t achieved much more through his efforts than thoroughly irritating Potter. He should have been satisfied to elicit the delightfully frustrated response from the Gryffindor, but he wasn’t. This house had a secret and Draco was determined to find out what it was – for curiosity’s sake only, of course. He didn’t appreciate being deliberately kept in the dark.

 

And now unexplained sounds were emitting from Potter’s bedroom that Draco felt compelled to investigate.

 

Moving as silently as he could, Draco slipped off the bed and padded to his door. He strained his ears to listen for any movement on the landing, and after a few moments was fairly confident that none of the Dursleys were awake. Relieved that the hinges didn’t squeak when he opened the door, he closed it just as carefully behind him and crept over to Potter’s room.

 

He wondered for a moment if he could count on this door being equally as quiet and then recalled that he had actually seen Potter oiling all the hinges around the house the other day. It was a peculiar thing to do, but useful for Draco in this instance.

 

 _If anyone asks, I’m half asleep and confused this for the bathroom,_ Draco planned ahead. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would find in there – which was the point, he supposed. If he knew, he wouldn’t need to investigate.

 

He turned the knob and slowly pulled open the door.

 

It was darker in the room than it had been on the landing, so Draco waited patiently for his eyesight to adjust. When it did, he was almost disappointed.

 

Potter was asleep in bed, as Draco should have been, and was apparently dreaming. His thin form under the blanket was shifting and jerking, and the sounds emitting from his mouth were muffled by a fist.

 

Draco suddenly stepped closer, staring at the fist. Was that – blood?

 

It was. Potter’s teeth were sunk deeply into the flesh of his hand and dark trails ran from each small puncture.

 

The idiot was hurting himself in his sleep. No wonder he was moaning. Draco was surprised that he hadn’t managed to wake himself up.

 

Draco could have left him to it, and almost did, but Potter would be in pain enough in the morning and he could well damage the hand even more in the meantime.

 

Telling himself that he didn’t care had no effect.

 

Draco rolled his eyes at his own actions, deciding he would have to mock Potter about this later to make up for it, and reached forward to pull Potter’s hand out of his mouth.

 

“THEN – I – DON’T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!” Potter bellowed.

 

Draco jerked back in surprise at the sudden outburst and fear that he had just been caught in Potter’s room. But Potter’s eyes were still tightly shut, if rolling madly under their lids.

 

Was Potter – having… a nightmare?

 

The arm he still gripped was yanked violently back towards Potter’s face, but Draco battled to keep Potter from mutilating his hand again, morbidly fascinated by the scene playing out in front of him.

 

“I DON’T CARE!” The unconscious boy yelled. His shout was echoed by another voice further down the hall.

 

“ _BOY_?!”

 

Draco swore under his breath – Mr Dursley had woken up and from the heavy footsteps pounding closer Draco deduced that he was coming this way. It crossed through his mind that it was strange for the father figure to come to the rescue during a nightmare; Draco’s mother was usually the one who responded when he was having a bad dream and Draco would have thought that Potter’s aunt would be the same. Mr Dursley didn’t really seem the comforting, touchy-feely type.

 

He remembered, then, that he was about to be caught out in Potter’s bedroom and for a lack of a better option he flung himself into the nearby cupboard, closing the doors as best he could.

 

Potter was still yelling. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END-”

 

The door to the bedroom burst open and rebounded off the wall with a resounding _crash._ “BOY!” came the shout again.

 

_Why does he keep calling his nephew that? Why not ‘Harry’?_

 

The light slammed on and Draco flinched, quickly retreating behind the few clothes hanging around him. There was a thin crack in the doors allowing him to peek out; he only hoped that no one would think to look _in._

 

A bulky form blocked out the light for a moment as Mr Dursley passed by the cupboard without paying it any heed.

 

“Boy! Wake up this _instant_!”

 

“-I DON’T CARE ANYMORE-”

 

Mr Dursley growled and – Draco couldn’t see properly, his back was turned – but then the man spun and Draco saw that he had Potter by the neck only to release him and throw him across the room.

 

Potter’s body crashed into the cupboard doors and Draco pressed a hand against his mouth to prevent the gasp from escaping.

 

Potter’s yells cut off abruptly, to be replaced a few seconds later with a panicked, “Uncle Vernon! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“What have I bloody told you about waking us up in the middle of the bloody night!”

 

Mr Dursley’s foot lashed out and the cupboard doors rattled as Potter was knocked back against them.

 

“I’m sorry, I try to stay quiet during my nightmares, I really-”

 

“Shut UP!” Another blow.

 

“I have work tomorrow, you bloody useless waste of space, to earn money to support my family, but do you care? Do you show one _ounce_ of consideration? No! You bloody wake me up and my wife besides, all because you don’t have the _common decency_ to keep your mouth _shut_ while normal people are sleeping!”

 

Another blow, and the horrible sound of something cracking.

 

“You are a stupid, dirty, horrible _freak_! How dare you disturb the well-deserved rest of good, hardworking people like us! I wouldn’t be surprised if you woke up the whole bloody neighbourhood!”

 

The harsh kicks were coming harder, faster.

 

“And you do it deliberately, I know you do, you ungrateful, good-for-nothing swine! Is that any way to thank us for the charity we’ve shown you all these years, providing a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food that we can ill-afford to share with an unwanted burden like you?”

 

“Uncle – Vernon – please, Malfoy could hear-”

 

Draco winced, before he realised that Potter would think he was still in his own bedroom, rather than standing only a bare foot away.

 

“Well you should have thought of that before you started making such a horrendous racket at two in the morning! It will be your own damn fault if he discovers what an evil, disobedient brat you are! I will _not_ hold off on a well-deserved punishment because you don’t want to be embarrassed in front of one of your freak friends!”

 

Mr Dursley bodily picked Potter up again and flung him to the other side of the room. Draco had to seize the edges of the doors to stop them opening at the sudden release of pressure.

 

Footsteps stormed across the room, accompanied by the sound of a belt being unbuckled and pulled free.

 

Draco’s heart stopped and then started pounding faster than ever. It was the night of the battle all over again, but worse because this time Draco could not deny what he was seeing and hearing.

 

The whistle of leather through the air. A sharp _crack_ as the belt met flesh.

 

Yet no sound from Potter. Not so much as a yelp or a cry or a whimper or a plea. Stoic silence. Not even the house-elves could have borne this punishment silently.

 

It went on and on and on, the belt-turned-whip descending again and again, sporadically punctuated by further blows from a meaty foot.

 

Draco thought he was going to be sick.

 

At last, a broken cry, cut off by the sort of silence that only unconsciousness can bring. And Potter’s uncle stopped.

 

“That’ll teach you,” the huge man muttered, and marched from the room.

 

ooOOoo

 


	10. Revelations

 

Minutes passed in which Draco didn’t dare to move and hardly dared to breathe, but no sound came to indicate that the uncle would return and there was no movement from Potter’s crumpled form either.

 

Draco’s thoughts were in utter turmoil, more so than they had ever been, even when he had found out that his father had been captured and imprisoned. He had known what to feel, then: angry at Potter, his stupid friends and the stupid Order, and afraid for his family. Now, though… Now what the hell was he supposed to think, or feel, or do?

 

Harry Potter was being abused by his relatives.

 

There were no more excuses, no more convenient lies, no more denials. Draco knew the truth at last. He could have worked it out earlier; the signs were numerous and poorly disguised. But in as much as he had told himself that he wanted to solve the mystery, he had avoided the logical conclusion to the puzzle with steadfast determination.

 

But now he knew. And damned if he had any idea what he was supposed to do now.

 

Should he laugh? It was funny when Potter got himself injured, wasn’t it? Draco had laughed at Potter’s misfortunes plenty of times before. When Potter had his arm broken by a rogue Bludger and then the bones removed completely by an incompetent Lockhart, Draco had laughed. When Potter fainted because Dementors entered his compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Draco had laughed. When Potter fell from his broom during a Quidditch match because of the same horrible creatures and plummeted to what could have been a painful death if it hadn’t been for the quick spell work of teachers and Gryffindors alike, Draco had laughed. During the dangerous tasks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, at the retelling of Potter’s torture at the hands of the Dark Lord, every time Potter had a ‘funny turn’ because of his scar, Draco laughed. It was what he did.

 

But somehow, right now, he couldn’t find anything at all funny about the fact that Potter was being abused.

 

Should he feel a grim sense of triumph, then? He could almost view this as revenge for his father’s imprisonment being conveniently exacted by someone else when Draco himself was unable to lift a hand to Potter. But then, Potter hadn’t asked to be attacked by Death Eaters. Could he really be blamed for defending himself and his friends, or for the fact that the Order had come to his rescue? And hadn’t his father’s incarceration in Azkaban saved him from the torture and death that he almost certainly would have received from the Dark Lord for his failure?

 

Should he consider this valuable taunt material that he could use against Potter? The Boy Who Lived through a killing curse cast by one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world, unable to stand up against a fat Muggle. It was pathetic, wasn’t it? No self-respecting wizard should allow themselves to be beat upon by such a lesser being, yet Potter hadn’t even tried to defend himself. Surely it was a sign that Potter was a weak, useless excuse for a Gryffindor and Draco should use this knowledge to mock him mercilessly.

 

But Draco had _seen_ Potter fight. He wasn’t weak and he wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t back down from a battle against Slytherins, or Death Eaters, or even the Dark Lord himself. But against his own Muggle relatives…? Draco didn’t quite know how to reconcile the inconsistency.

 

Should he decide that he didn’t care how Potter was treated and go on with life as normal, pretending that he didn’t know? He had been doing a decent job of that over the past few weeks, ignoring the evidence of abuse and neglect that had been staring him in the face from day one. He could just sneak back to his room right now, go back to sleep and pretend that it had all been a particularly unpleasant dream.

 

What was the alternative? To send a letter to Professor Snape, or to Headmaster Dumbledore, or to the Child Protection division of the Ministry of Magic, or to the equivalent in the Muggle world? Would anyone even believe him? This was Harry Potter, after all: the Golden Boy of Gryffindor, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the potential Hero of the Wizarding World. Potter was the last child in the world that anyone would expect to be a victim of abuse. Draco could hardly believe it himself and he had seen it with his own eyes.

 

How was it possible that no one _knew_? Surely Dumbledore would have vetted the Dursleys before leaving Potter with them all those years ago. Surely someone would have been sent to check up on him on a regular basis. Surely the teachers of Hogwarts would have noticed something. Surely Potter would have confided in his friends. How could so many people have _missed_ this?

 

It seemed Draco was the only person who knew the truth about Potter’s home life, and how was he supposed to deal with it? He hadn’t signed up for this. All he had wanted was a safe place to stay for the summer holidays.

 

He didn’t even know who to be angry with. Potter, for not telling anyone? The Dursleys, for daring to mistreat a wizard in their care? Potter’s friends, for not realising? Dumbledore, for leaving Draco here to discover this disturbingly confronting revelation about his school yard nemesis? Or himself, for taking so long to recognise the truth of the situation?

 

The cupboard was becoming cramped and stuffy, so Draco finally stepped out from his hiding place, still not knowing what he was going to do. He looked towards the door and then back to Potter. Leave, or stay?

 

Before he had consciously made up his mind, Draco found himself moving towards the battered and bleeding body.

 

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned that Potter was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing. His uncle hadn’t managed to kill him, then.

 

He was in a bad way, though. His breathing was ragged, pained. A bruise darkened his cheek, interrupted by an angry thick welt that crossed over the outline of an older one to angle from his jaw, over his bloodied nose and up to his hairline. A lump had risen on the back of Potter’s head, noticeable even under the messy mop of black hair.

 

But Draco’s eyes were drawn to the edge of Potter’s pyjama shirt that had ridden up around his chest. Deep, mottled bruising could not hide the ribs that stood out in stark relief, or the complete lack of any fat whatsoever around Potter’s stomach. He was practically emaciated, as though he had hardly eaten anything since school had ended.

 

Draco now saw Potter’s insistence that he not eat with their family at the dinner table in a new light.

 

He was seeing a lot of things in a new light now, actually. Like how he had found Potter in the throes of a nightmare with his teeth clamped down on his fist. He knew why, now, but after witnessing Potter wake up screaming from his strange visions numerous times in the past couple of years he should have realised sooner; Potter was very vocal during bad dreams. If his uncle’s reaction to having his sleep disturbed in the middle of the night was always the same, it was no wonder that Potter would prefer to maul his own hand to silence himself than risk arousing his uncle’s anger.

 

Draco felt a wrench in his gut – that uncomfortable feeling that might have been guilt – as he realised that if he hadn’t interfered, Potter may have been able to avoid drawing any more attention to himself tonight. Draco had, however inadvertently, contributed to this latest beating even if he hadn’t been the one wielding the belt.

 

 _I didn’t know what would happen,_ he thought defensively, as though someone had accused him of wrongdoing. He was not accustomed to having a conscience. _Bloody hell, I was actually trying to_ help _him. It’s not my fault that his uncle is a raving, abusive lunatic of a Muggle._

 

Even so, the guilt wouldn’t leave him alone until he resolved to fix Potter up as best he could and get him settled back onto the bed.

 

Grumbling under his breath about Potters and Muggles and everyone else that had some bearing on this inconvenient situation he had somehow landed himself in, Draco snuck back into his own room to retrieve some of the potions he had stored in his trunk. He hadn’t anticipated the need for healing and restorative supplies, but he thought he might have a few that could help.

 

When he returned Potter was still unconscious, curled into that protective foetal position favoured by infants and house elves – and mistreated adolescents accustomed to violence committed against their person, apparently.

 

Draco shook his head and set to work, gently rubbing in some salve to the visibly bruised sections of skin and watching as blacks and blues faded to the greens and yellows of older injuries. The welts he couldn’t do much about, except apply some anti-inflammatory cream to the worst affected regions. He didn’t have nearly enough to cover Potter’s entire back, but he thought his efforts might have helped to reduce the pain a little.

 

He sat back on his heels, disappointed by how little progress he’d made. He still had the adapted Skele-Gro Potion to address the bones he had heard crack under the onslaught and a Revitalising Potion to lend Potter’s body some of the additional strength it would need to heal more on its own, but those needed to be swallowed and so would have to wait until Potter regained consciousness. It all seemed woefully inadequate, though.

 

What Potter really needed was a professional Healer, like Madam Pomfrey, or Isy Mauldwin, or –

 

The realisation struck him like a thunderclap. Potter _had_ been examined by a Healer, the night of the battle, and he had fought it tooth and nail. At the time Draco had wondered why, but now he knew – Potter had been afraid that she would discover the true extend of his injuries. If her reaction was anything to go by, she had seen Potter in a condition similar to the one he was in now and known that the damage could not have been cause by spells alone. At the very least, no known curse could instantly strip the fat from a person and leave them looking half-starved. It must have been obvious that something else was going on, but Potter had invoked the confidentiality clause of the Healer Code of Conduct Act (1322) which forbade her from revealing to anyone else what she had seen and consequently suspected.

 

Potter had made every effort to keep all of this a secret. Although, if Draco had been in his place he probably would have Obliviated the Healer rather than rely on her professional discretion. Gryffindors were entirely too trusting for their own good.

 

Noticing that the cream he’d applied had finished being absorbed and most of the swelling had reduced, Draco gingerly pulled Potter’s pyjama top back down, effectively hiding the battered torso from view.

 

 _That’s why he always wears a long-sleeved shirt, even when he’s working outside on a boiling hot day,_ Draco realised as he carefully lifted Potter into his arms and transferred him from the hard floor to the only slightly softer bed. Touching the ratty linen gave Draco the strong desire to wash his hands and he didn’t know how Potter could stand to sleep on it – except, he probably had no choice in the matter.

 

 _Damn Muggles,_ Draco thought darkly.

 

Trying to decide what would be the least painful position for Potter to lie in wasn’t easy, but Draco settled on shifting the black-haired boy onto his side and propping a pillow under his head. Reluctantly, he tugged the ragged blanket over Potter’s slim form, releasing the fabric quickly.

 

A glance at Potter’s clock told him that the time was now 4am. He was tired and a part of him wanted to go back to his own room to sleep. But then again, he had absolutely no desire to revisit Potter’s brutal beating in his dreams. Besides, he intended to have a… conversation… with Potter about everything he now knew and when Potter eventually woke seemed as good a time as any.

 

His mind made up, Draco lowered himself into the wobbly chair by the desk and leaned back with a gentle sigh.

 

An outside observer might have thought that Draco was standing guard over Potter, trying to protect him from further nightmares or undeserved attacks, making sure that he was okay and would live through the night. Which would have been a preposterous and completely incorrect assumption, of course. Draco was merely ensuring that Potter wouldn’t try to sneak away and avoid the confrontation that was coming.

 

Any additional benefits that his presence could have were unintended and purely coincidental.

 

ooOOoo

 

Pain. Lots of pain. And yet, not so much pain as Harry thought he _should_ be in, which made no sense at all. It would help if he could remember why he thought he should be in more pain than he was, but he hadn’t quite reached that level of awareness yet.

 

He did, however, get the sense that someone was nearby, watching him. He hated it when people watched him. It usually meant that were waiting for him to make some sort of mistake that they could use against him. But really, how many mistakes could a person make while sleeping?

 

Snoring, he guessed, but that was okay because he never snored. Sleeping in? A pang of fright went through him, dragging his thoughts out of the twilight zone and closer to consciousness.

 

Which is when he remembered the other cardinal sin possible to commit while asleep: having a nightmare and failing to contain the noise.

 

He had gone to bed last night thinking of Si- of the Department of Mysteries. His mind had ruthlessly played out his memories of that night, up to and including the part when he had been screaming at Dumbledore… and then the Headmaster’s office had become his bedroom at Privet Drive and Dumbledore had turned into Uncle Vernon and Harry had realised in a moment of blinding terror that he had been screaming out loud, and Uncle Vernon had heard him.

 

When he was at school, Harry was normally able to cast an Imperturbable Charm around his bed at night so he wouldn’t disturb his dorm-mates with his frequent nightmares – although when he was having a Voldemort-induced vision the charm tended to shatter – but at Privet Drive such magic wasn’t available to him. Still, over the years he had trained himself to bite down on his hand to prevent himself from yelling during bad dreams and usually it was successful. He didn’t know what had gone wrong this time, but he had paid dearly for it.

                                                                                                                                                            

And yet… his back didn’t burn as much as it should, and the full-body ache was milder than it should have been, and he was quite sure that he was lying on his bed rather than in a crumpled heap on the floor. It was oddly reminiscent of the time he’d woken up on the couch in the living room after the implosion of magic that had knocked him out in the kitchen, and it had turned out that _Malfoy_ of all people had been the one to move him.

 

As if on cue, a voice nearby drawled, “Waking up finally, are you, Potter?”

 

In a single movement Harry sat bolt upright, launched himself backwards to have his back to the headboard and yanked the blanket up to his chin.

 

“Malfoy, what are you-” He fumbled for his glasses and shoved them onto his face, bringing the room and – yes, it was Malfoy – clearly into focus. “- _doing_ in here?”

 

The blonde was lounging comfortably in his chair, rocking it on the uneven legs as though they were a deliberate feature rather than a result of Dudley-induced damage. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by Harry’s half-panicked reaction to him being there uninvited. “Waiting for you to wake up, of course. Took you long enough.”

 

Unwillingly, Harry glanced toward the clock and winced at the knowledge that he had once again failed to make breakfast for the Dursleys. The only bright side was that-

 

“Your uncle left for work an hour ago,” Malfoy said.

 

Startled, his eyes jerked to Malfoy’s face, which was calm and unreadable. Harry didn’t know what to make of what he’d just said; why would Malfoy feel it necessary to inform him of Vernon’s departure?

 

“You should drink those, by the way, before we have our little chat,” the blonde continued, waving a casual hand toward the bedside table and the two Potion bottles sitting there that Harry had previously failed to notice.

 

“Chat? What- why- where did you get those?” Worry flared in his gut. “You didn’t- please tell me you didn’t break into the cupboard under the stairs- why would you-”

 

“What possible reason would I have to break into a cupboard?” Malfoy asked, looking momentarily puzzled. Then an expression of dawning comprehension appeared that Harry liked even less and Malfoy breathed, “Your _school_ _trunk_ is in there? Why-” He closed his mouth, tossed his head and continued, “No, Potter, those are from my own personal stores.” His chest puffed out slightly. “I brewed them myself.”

 

“Snape had you practicing how to brew poisons, did he?” Harry eyed the potions with enhanced distrust.

 

“I’ll have you know, Potter, that _Professor_ Snape recognised my extraordinary talent and allowed me to advance to N.E.W.T level potions ahead of time. I have been training to brew many different potions, including the Skele-Gro and Revitalising potion set before you, while some other poor unfortunates are still needing to take _remedial_ classes just to keep up with the rest of the grade.”

 

Remedial Potions – Occlumency with Snape – his failure to block out the visions from Voldemort – the false vision of Sirius being tortured that convinced Harry to go running to his rescue and forced Sirius to instead rescue him…

 

Harry snarled, angry with himself and Snape and the rest of the universe. “I’ll tell you where you can shove those bloody potions.”

 

“Now, now, Potter, play nicely. They’ve been brewed perfectly, so they’re much more reliable than any concoction _you_ could come up with. There’s no need to fret.” He waited expectantly, as though he seriously expected Harry to reach for the bottles. When Harry made no move to do so, Malfoy frowned and prompted, “Go on, drink up.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you need them. And if you don’t do it voluntarily, I’ll force them down your throat myself.”

 

Even if he did need them – as a reminder, his ribs chose that moment to give a particularly painful twinge – why would Malfoy think that he did? And for that matter, why would Malfoy try to do anything about it anyway?

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Oh honestly, Potter, you really are paranoid. I swear on my magic that those potions will not kill or harm you in any way. _Now_ will you drink them?”

 

Harry wasn’t inclined to trust Malfoy’s word and he was fairly sure that a proper Wizard’s Oath required a wand to make it official, but still, Malfoy appeared earnest oddly enough. And what did it matter, really, if the potions killed him? Dumbledore would just have to find a new hero.

 

“Fine,” he muttered. He downed the contents of the two small bottles.

 

The supposed Skele-Gro burned familiarly as he swallowed it and moments later he felt stabbing, splintering pain in his chest which worsened and then abruptly faded, taking the soreness of his injured ribs away with it. The other potion tasted far better, like warm honey and milk that spread the warmth out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He felt more awake, then, and stronger than he had been all holidays.

 

“Huh,” was all he could say and Malfoy smirked.

 

“Better, Potter?”

 

“Yes, but-” He frowned, eyes narrowing. “But I was fine to begin with.”

 

Malfoy’s eyebrows lifted. “Has the definition of ‘fine’ changed recently, or is your interpretation of the word just warped?”

 

“What are you implying, exactly?”

 

“I’m not implying anything. You were not fine and you still have a long way to go before that word could be logically applied to you, but at least you no longer have cracked ribs.”

 

“Cracked ribs?” Harry said disingenuously.

 

“You know, Potter, when those hard white things protecting your heart and lungs fracture because they were kicked a few times too many?”

 

Harry’s eyes widened – Malfoy was bluffing, or guessing, or something, he couldn’t actually know that the ribs had cracked under a few powerful blows from Uncle Vernon’s foot. He couldn’t know that they were injured at all – it wasn’t like he could perform a diagnostic charm without getting in trouble for underage magic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“No? So you don’t remember your uncle beating you into a bloody pulp, then?”

 

“ _What_?!”

 

Harry scrambled off the bed so that it was between him and Malfoy, backing into the corner with the blanket still clutched in his hand. His mind was tripping and stumbling over Malfoy’s shocking pronouncement; he couldn’t respond fast enough with some clever, misleading comment.

 

“I- I don’t know what you- heard- last night, but I have nightmares sometimes and- and I thrash around a bit. My uncle would never-”

 

“I didn’t just hear, Potter,” Malfoy interrupted, “So lying isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

 

 _What the hell does that mean, didn’t just-?_ “I’m not lying. I have nightmares all the time, just ask Ron or my relatives…”

 

“Oh, I know you have nightmares,” Malfoy assured him. “I also know that your uncle doesn’t take too kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night because of them.”

 

“What?” Harry didn’t like this, he really didn’t like this.

 

“There’s no use in denying it, Potter,” Malfoy said, getting to his feet. “I caught the whole show.” He started to walk around the end of the bed, cutting off any chance for escape.

 

Harry pressed himself closer to the wall, willing it to swallow him so he wouldn’t have to hear what he was so afraid that Malfoy was going to say next.

 

“I saw you having the nightmare, I saw your uncle come charging in like some mad hippogriff, I saw him yell at you to wake up and then throw you across the room. And then I saw him physically assault you like you were nothing more than a disobedient house elf.”

 

Unexpectedly, Harry felt anger bubble up inside him at the reminder that Dobby had once belonged to the Malfoys. “That’s rich, coming from a member of the family that mistreated Dobby so badly that he was driven half-mad before I freed him.”

 

Malfoy looked momentarily taken aback. “That’s… neither here nor there, Potter. The point is-”

 

“That is so bloody typical of you, Malfoy! You think that you’re so high and mighty, the pureblood prince, and anyone else – half-bloods, Muggle-borns and house-elves alike – are so far beneath you that it doesn’t even matter if they get Petrified or killed by a basilisk, or forced into ironing their own fingers and smashing their head with a desk lamp because you don’t think they’re worth a damn!”

 

“So you care what happens to a house-elf like Dobby to the point of risking my father’s anger to set him free, but you don’t care that you yourself are being abused by your own relatives?”

 

Harry recoiled like he had been slapped in the face. “A-abused?”

 

“Yes, Potter. Your. Relatives. Are. Abusing. You.”

 

Harry shook his head so frantically that his glasses nearly went flying off. “No, no, they’re not. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I _saw_ what happened last night, Potter,” Malfoy insisted, stepping closer so he was only two feet away, eyes like burnished steel boring into him. “It was verbal and physical abuse, and I can tell it wasn’t the first time that it’s happened. Not to mention the neglect that is evident by your emaciated body and appalling clothes.”

 

“It’s – it’s not abuse. I admit that my uncle can get – can get a bit carried away, sometimes, when he’s punishing me…”

 

“Punishing?” Malfoy sounded incredulous. “Potter, you were having a nightmare. In any normal family that would earn you cuddles and hot chocolate, not a thrashing. Besides, beating you to within an inch of your life is not an appropriate punishment no matter what you may have done wrong. It is abuse, plain and simple.”

 

Harry wanted to argue more, but he couldn’t seem to form the words, his mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out.

 

“Do the professors at school ever strike you when you break the rules?” Malfoy asked rhetorically. “Do you think the Weasley patriarch ever takes a cane or a belt to his children when they misbehave? Do you imagine that any civilised human beings would deliberately starve a child or dress them in rags unless they were having extreme financial difficulties – which, by the way, it is clear the Dursleys are _not_? The worst punishment I’ve ever received from my father was a few Stinging Hexes against my behind and he’s a bloody Death Eater! The way that you are treated by those despicable Muggles is sick and wrong, and _not_ normal by any stretch of the imagination.”

 

“You don’t understand – what I’m like when I’m here, what I’ve done to them. I ruined their lives; they didn’t want to have anything to do with m-magic, and then I was dumped on their doorstep and they took me in anyway, even when it meant that they had another mouth to feed and a veritable lightning rod for strange and unpleasant occurrences… And all I do is mess things up for them, like that business deal of Uncle Vernon’s that I ruined, and blowing up Aunt Marge, and getting Dudley attacked by Dementors, and drawing the attention of Voldemort and Death Eaters to this house and putting their lives in danger, and-”

 

“Potter!” Malfoy barked and Harry realised he was rambling. He sucked back the stream of words, automatically taking his lip in between his teeth to stop himself from saying anymore. “Nothing, and I mean _nothing,_ that you do gives them the license to abuse you. If Dumbledore knew-”

 

“But he does know,” Harry interrupted. He remembered that conversation with Dumbledore all too well. The older wizard had admitted that he had known all along that Harry would suffer at the hands of his relatives, that by leaving Harry there he had condemned him to ‘ten dark and difficult years’, but his priority was keeping Harry alive. “He knows, and he thinks it is regrettable, perhaps even mildly upsetting, but in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t really matter as long as I’m safe from Voldemort.”

 

“Grand – scheme-” Malfoy spluttered, “-Potter, you’re not even sixteen years old yet! You shouldn’t have to be thinking about any ‘grand scheme’, you should be concerned about your own welfare.”

 

Harry straightened, levelling a steady gaze at the blonde. “I’m not a child anymore,” he said calmly, “and I haven’t been – not really – since the day my parents died. I’m here for a purpose: to fight Voldemort. I have to stay alive until I’m ready to face him. That’s the only thing that matters.”

 

Malfoy ran his fingers back through his hair, mumbling something along the lines of “I can’t believe I’m hearing this”. “Don’t you care, Potter? Doesn’t it upset you, the way you’re treated here?”

 

Harry shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

 

“But _why_? Why haven’t you fought back?”

 

“We’re not allowed to do magic outside of school and if you haven’t noticed already, my uncle is at least four times bigger than me. Do you really think I would stand a chance against him?”

 

“Then why haven’t you run away? Isn’t there somewhere else you can go? You’re the Boy-Who-Lived – surely any family in the wizarding world would be glad to take you in. I bet the Weasleys would adopt you in a heartbeat, if you asked them.”

 

Harry glared, all the more annoyed by Malfoy’s suggestion because he had actually considered it himself more than once. “I thought Dumbledore explained to you about the blood wards. Nowhere is safer than here.”

 

Malfoy flung his arms up into the air. “ _Anywhere_ is safer than here! If you weren’t a wizard, the way your uncle treats you probably would have killed you by now.”

 

 _If I wasn’t a wizard, my uncle wouldn’t hate me so much and he wouldn’t have to treat me like this just to keep me in line._ “He wouldn’t take it that far.”

 

“You should leave,” Malfoy insisted. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this nonsense.”

 

“If I leave, the blood wards fall. Our sanctuary from Voldemort will be irrevocably destroyed and he would be onto us before we could so much as reach the end of Privet Drive. Or have you forgotten so quickly the Death Eater attack we barely escaped from only a few days ago?”

 

“But-”

 

“No. I can survive being knocked around a little over the summer. I won’t endanger you, or the Weasleys, or anyone else just because Uncle Vernon goes a bit overboard with his punishments sometimes.”

 

“You should at least tell someone…”

 

“No!” Harry snapped, stepping forward forcibly so that he was standing practically nose to nose with Malfoy, cold green eyes blaring a warning that he reinforced with words. “This stays in this house; no one else is to know about it, do you understand me? If you tell _anyone_ , I promise you will regret it.”

 

Malfoy swallowed and retreated slightly. “I was just trying to help.”

 

“Well here’s a newsflash for you, Malfoy – I don’t need or want your help. I don’t need help from anyone. I’ve managed just fine on my own since the day Voldemort – oh, _grow up,_ would you? – since Voldemort murdered my parents. So just mind your own business, alright?”

 

“Fine,” Malfoy muttered. “Just forget it.”

 

“I intend to,” Harry said, pushing past the blonde to get started on the day’s chores.

 

Malfoy stared after him silently.

 

ooOOoo


	11. Better Days

 

The rejection stung.

 

It wasn’t because Draco valued Potter’s opinion, or even in any way _liked_ the other boy, because truth be told he really didn’t. Maybe if events had gone differently on that first fateful trip on the Hogwarts Express the two of them might have been friends, or at least on civil terms with each other. But Potter, self-righteous git that he was, had rejected his hand that day – along with the offer of friendship and help with adjusting to life in the Wizarding World that it had symbolised.

 

Draco had been willing to overlook the unfortunate heritage of Potter’s mother, since the bloodline of his father was pure almost as far back as the Malfoys, and was actually looking forward to getting to know the real person behind the legend of the Boy Who Lived. But by an unfortunate accident of fate, Potter had met the Weasel first and by virtue of being his first friend – possibly ever, given the Dursleys’ apparent determination to ruin every aspect of Potter’s life – Weasley had won Potter’s steadfast loyalty.

 

From that moment on it had been Draco, Crabbe and Goyle versus Potter, Weasley and, later, the know-it-all Granger. The rivalry for years had been fierce and bitter, all the more so because Draco couldn’t stand the fact that Potter always had such a holier-than-thou attitude – as though being a pureblood and proud of it somehow made him worthy of disdain rather than respect.

 

So no, Draco didn’t like Potter, particularly.

 

But for some unknown reason, these holidays Draco had, for the first time in his life, made an effort to help another human being with no thought of personal gain.

 

It had started with that stupid battle. Against all Slytherin rules of self-preservation, Draco had refused to leave Potter to the wolves when he himself had had the perfect opportunity to escape. He hadn’t expected a thankyou – although he did get one, surprisingly – nor anything else particularly good to come out of his actions, except the possibility of Potter living to fight another day.

 

And then when Draco had discovered how Potter was being treated by his own relatives, he had – once again against his nature – taken steps to relieve Potter’s immediate suffering. He had also tried to convince Potter to leave Privet Drive for his own good, even though he did, in fact and contrary to what Potter seemed to believe, realise the implications. He knew that this haven from the war would cease to be if Potter took his advice, yet in a moment of insanity Draco had been willing to give it up if it meant Potter would be delivered from his abusive relatives.

 

And Potter had the nerve to take offence! If Draco had known that trying to do the decent thing would cause such a negative reaction, he would have just left well enough alone. Maybe. Potter obviously didn’t appreciate his attempts to help, so Draco should just leave him to it. The git wanted to go it alone, so Draco should let him.

 

But this whole ‘doing the right thing’ business was like a disease, like an infection or a cancer. In a moment of weakness Draco had let his guard down and it had taken root inside of him. Now it refused to be dislodged or expelled, growing and spreading instead. He tried to ignore it, hiding behind the mask of sneering indifference that had been his face to the world almost his entire life. It didn’t work.

 

He would hear Mr Dursley’s voice raised in anger and he would stomp loudly down the corridor so they would hear him coming. When he entered the kitchen, the uncle would look irritated and Potter relieved as he tugged his t-shirt around to sit properly on his frame.

 

He would see how Potter never so much as taste-tested the food while he was cooking, even as his stomach rumbled, and he would decide to eat with the Dursleys that evening so they would have no choice but to allow Potter to eat with them as well.

 

He would notice when Potter’s cousin was about to deliberately spill a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of soft drink on the lounge floor, and he would jump in to rescue Dudley from doing it ‘accidentally’ so that Potter wouldn’t have to clean it up.

 

He left a bottle of Dreamless Sleep potion on Potter’s bedside table and snuck in every so often while he was asleep to tend to the injuries he had been unable to prevent.

 

Potter never said anything, but the hostility he usually expressed toward him began to decrease, little by little. Rather than tensing when Draco came into the room, the tension instead seemed to slough from his shoulders. Rather than snap at him if he tried to start a conversation, Potter would quietly respond. Rather than shift uncomfortably while he worked under his watchful gaze, Potter looked more at ease when he was there and once or twice his features even showed the faintest glimmer of a smile. Draco took to streaming off a rambling list of his most inventive and yet accurate insults directed toward the Dursleys (while none of them were in ear shot) for Potter’s entertainment and every so often he would hear a reluctant chuckle escape Potter’s lips.

 

Now frequently denied the chance to beat upon his nephew under the guise of preventing Draco from discovering the truth, Potter’s uncle vented his frustration by continuing to load on the chores. Draco noticed how so many of them were superfluous – such as Potter having to repaint the recently painted shed and fence because of imaginary drip marks – or unfair – such as Potter being forced to clean up after his cousin’s messes. Of course, Potter never complained; he just set to work on the seemingly endless list of tasks.

 

Draco saw that, despite an incredible level of perseverance and willpower on Potter’s part and his own subtle efforts at assistance, Potter was growing more and more exhausted by the day. Draco would hear him fall into bed later and later each night, and he was always up again by the break of dawn, working feverishly. He didn’t need Potter to tell him what would happen if he didn’t complete each day’s work; it was easy enough to guess. Now that thanks to Draco’s interventions Mr Dursley was ‘punishing’ him less often, Potter was all the more eager to avoid arousing his ire.

 

Late on a Sunday afternoon, Draco watched as Potter wearily tugged at some persistent weeds. His forehead was streaked with a combination of sweat and dirt and the baggy t-shirt clung to his bent back. Even from where he reclined in a chair on the patio, Draco could see the fatigued tremble in Potter’s hands.

 

The flowerbed was supposed to be clear of the unwelcome invaders by the time that Potter’s uncle came outside to check, which should be in approximately half an hour – although, the man had recently taken to turning up earlier to try to catch Potter off guard. Draco could tell that, at the rate he was going at the moment, Potter wasn’t going to finish in time. It wasn’t his fault; he was trying his best, but the hard facts were that Potter wasn’t getting enough sleep or enough food to eat, so essentially his energy output was far higher than the level of input and his body was about ready to collapse under the strain.

 

Potter put all his weight – which didn’t amount to much anymore – into a determined yank of one particularly stubborn weed. When the roots abruptly pulled free from the hard-baked dirt, Potter was caught off balance. He landed hard on his back which, even with Draco’s anti-inflammatory cream and bruise salve, had to hurt. After a few moments, Potter slowly rolled onto his side and attempted to push himself up again. His arms wobbled for a second, then buckled.

 

Up until this point, Draco had avoided doing anything to help Potter that was too obvious, for various reasons – including not wanting to offend his own sensibilities, irritate Potter to the point of yelling at him to leave him alone again, or alert the Dursleys to the fact that he was in any way aiding Potter. But all these things flew out of his head when he saw Potter’s body slump back to the ground and fail to rise again.

 

He scrambled out of his chair and dashed across the garden, heedless of the dirt as he dropped to his knees beside the fallen boy.

 

“Potter?”

 

A faint groan answered him and the shoulder under his hand shifted slightly.

 

“This isn’t the greatest time or place to catch a few zzz’s,” Draco chided, relieved that the other boy was still conscious.

 

“Mmphgumphl,” Potter mumbled.

 

Draco smirked. “What was that, Potter?”

 

“… slept out here… few times… v… comfortable…”

 

Draco shook his head, wondering if this had been another one of Potter’s ‘punishments’. He wouldn’t put it past the uncle to leave him outside overnight in the middle of winter. “Crazy Gryffindor,” he said quietly. “Come on, you need to get up. Your uncle will be here any minute to check the flowerbed.”

 

He felt Potter jerk at the reminder and try to push himself upright. With Draco’s help he managed to manoeuvre into a sitting position, but he swayed unsteadily and ended up leaning against Draco for support. This close to him, Draco could see more clearly the bloodshot eyes and the heavy bags under them, as well as the faint stress lines webbing out from the corners that belonged on a much older face.

 

“Merlin, Potter, this isn’t good for you.”

 

“Neither is… eating too many… chocolate frogs… in one sitting…” Potter answered blearily, and Draco blinked. “…just ask Ron… ate thirty-six of them… in one hour… and then threw up all over… Hermione… I think his ears were still ringing… three days later…” Was that a faint tinge of laughter to his tone?

 

Potter reached out a shaking hand and pulled at another invading green shoot among the flowers, but his fingers had barely any grip and he was getting nowhere fast.

 

“Oh, for love of- No, Potter, you just rest for a little while. Let me.”

 

And batting Potter’s hand out of the way, Draco took over.

 

ooOOoo

 

“…hope you don’t mind… I’ve enlisted Potter… clean my bedroom… hasn’t been done properly in a while, and he’s such an expert… all a part… same house, isn’t it?” Malfoy’s voice. Talking to…

 

“Yes, of course…” Aunt Petunia. “…tell him he’s wanted downstairs when he’s done...”

 

“Certainly, ma’am… might be… while, though…”

 

He couldn’t quite catch her reply, but he heard her light footsteps fading as she walked away and then the sound of a door closing.

 

“Whmfle?” Harry asked, frowning slightly when it didn’t quite come out right. He had meant to say… what had he meant to say?

 

“There, I think I’ve managed to buy you an hour or so,” Malfoy’s voice said, from closer this time. Harry hadn’t heard him approach.

 

“You… whamme… clean your room?” Harry asked. A little more coherence that time.

 

“No, genius, I want you to sleep.”

 

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Howzat gonna… get your room… clean?” He moved his hand in a circular scrubbing motion, and felt a strange fluffy softness against his skin.

 

An exasperated sigh. “The room is fine. But I figure, if they think you’re already working they won’t feel the need to give you something else to do and while you’re holed up in here you can catch up on some much needed rest.”

 

“But ‘m not ‘llowed…” Harry protested sleepily.

 

Pale hands entered his line of vision, reaching to take off his glasses, and Harry noticed something odd. “Malfoy… your hands are dirty… never seen ‘em… like that before… What you been doing?”

 

The world became blurry. A few seconds later a warm blanket was pulled up to his chin and tucked in comfortably. _No one’s ever tucked me in before,_ Harry thought.

 

“I finished the flowerbed for you, since you were obviously in no condition to do it yourself,” Malfoy’s answer floated over to him, as though from a great distance. “Don’t worry, none of the Dursleys saw. But if you tell anyone, I’ll swear I was only doing Herbology homework.”

 

“Herbology,” Harry repeated in a mumble. “Don’t like Herbology… Neville does, though, you could ask him for help…”

 

A derisive snort. “As if I’d need help from that s-” Harry was expecting an insult and wondered if he would be able to muster enough energy for the rebuttal he would be obliged to give as Neville’s friend, but Malfoy just ended lamely, “Ah, from him.”

 

Sleep swiftly claiming him, Harry started to say that Herbology was Neville’s best subject and even Hermione asked him for pointers sometimes, but he didn’t get very far before his words trailed off into slow, deep breathing.

 

The last thing he heard as he drifted off was a muttered, “Crazy Gryffindors”. It made him give a sleepy smile, because the tone held no menace; rather a bemused fondness that he had never expected to hear in the voice of a snarky Slytherin.

 

ooOOoo

 

It became a routine, but not the sort of routine that had any easily discernible pattern or logic to it.

 

Harry would go about his days as usual, working to complete all the tasks that Uncle Vernon set for him. At random intervals, Malfoy would adopt his best Dudley-like persona (which was very similar to Malfoy’s own pureblood superiority complex at its worst, though Harry declined to point this out) and order Harry to do some sort of ‘job’ in the guest room, which would inevitably take a few hours to complete. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia displayed no inclination to object; in fact, Harry got the impression that Malfoy’s apparent attitude to their freak nephew was earning him their approval.

 

If they were to ever discover the truth, however, Harry was certain that they wouldn’t be happy. Because, hidden away in Malfoy’s room, Harry _wasn’t_ working. Instead, he was able to use the precious stolen hours to catch up on some of the sleep that he’d been missing. The difference it made to his energy levels was astounding, as though his body had forgotten what it felt like to be well rested.

 

On the days when he wasn’t so fatigued that he fell asleep immediately, Malfoy lent him the use of his text books and writing supplies, so he was able to get started on the homework he had feared he wouldn’t have the chance to do this summer with his trunk locked away in the cupboard. Once or twice Malfoy had even ‘accidentally’ left his own completed homework within view, which Harry could glean hints and inspiration from if he needed to. In a distinctly Hermione-type manner, Malfoy even went so far as to go over a few of his essays, adding corrections here and suggestions there. Harry began to realise that for all of Malfoy’s talk about “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know”, the blonde was actually quite intelligent. It certainly explained why Crabbe and Goyle had never managed to flunk out of Hogwarts; Harry was now convinced that all of their passing grades could be attributed to Malfoy.

 

Within those four, simple walls, Harry was also able to tend to his injuries without the fear that one of the Dursleys would barge in on him unannounced and confiscate the medical supplies. The punishments were less frequent now, thanks to Malfoy, but more severe when they did occur possibly because Uncle Vernon’s rage was given time to build up pressure rather than vent more regularly. Still, the beatings were easier to bear with the knowledge that once Malfoy discovered what had happened, he would deliver a blue streak about Vernon that would give Ron a run for his money, even as he set about treating those regions of his back that Harry couldn’t reach himself.

 

Malfoy started to set aside a portion of his food from each meal for him, too, that he would eat the next time he was given a ‘job’, and even cold or slightly stale it was much better than having nothing. Every so often Malfoy would actually claim that he wasn’t hungry at all. The rumbling of his stomach betrayed him; Harry knew that he was lying and Malfoy had to know that he knew, but he tried to keep up the charade all the same so that Harry would have a full meal for once. After so long snatching only the occasional scrap of meat or crust of bread to eat, Harry wasn’t actually able to stomach an entire plateful of food, so in the end he and Malfoy would share. He appreciated the gesture, though.

 

He didn’t quite know how it happened, but Malfoy’s bedroom had become almost like his own little sanctuary within the house that had hated and imprisoned him, like an island of peace and safety where the waves of a painful reality could not touch him.

 

A part of him knew that it was just an illusion, that it couldn’t last. It was like his first few days of primary school. His teacher, Miss Andrews, was so nice to him – smiling and everything, fussing over his skinned knee (courtesy of Dudley) in a way that was both startling and wonderful at the same time, inviting him to speak up when he knew the answer and ask questions when he didn’t... She had called him ‘Harry’, and no one had ever done that before. And his classmates had treated him as one of them, talking to him and willingly sitting next to him, even letting him play with them. He had thought he had found friends at that school, for the first time ever.

 

But Dudley had quickly gathered a posse around himself of the biggest and strongest boys in the class. Then he started to spread nasty stories about Harry, and pick on him, and pick on anyone else that hung around him, and invented the game of Harry-Hunting. Any potential friends that had displayed resistance to the insults and name-calling had bailed at Harry’s first broken nose. Harry had run to his teacher, sure that she at least was someone who could and would protect him. But Aunt Petunia was already there, deep in conversation with Miss Andrews, and when she was done she wore a triumphant expression on her face. Miss Andrews never smiled at him again.

 

This current-day respite from the Dursleys could hardly be expected to end any differently. As soon as the Dursleys found out, it would be over. Aunt Petunia would poison Malfoy against him with words, Uncle Vernon would employ more physical means to deter Malfoy from helping him and Dudley would work to make Malfoy’s life a living hell if he didn’t conform to their way of thinking and behaving.

 

Providing, of course, that the Dursleys would need to get involved at all, and Harry wasn’t at all sure that they would. After all, what was more likely? That Malfoy had genuinely turned over a new leaf, or he was just acting in order to further his own agenda? Harry was beginning to trust him, to rely on him. Deep down he _knew_ how stupid, how dangerous, it was to pretend that Draco Malfoy wasn’t the same person who had taunted, insulted, threatened and attacked him and his friends so many times over the past five years, that he wasn’t the son of a Death Eater who had shown every sign of following in his father’s footsteps until the start of this summer.

 

He was a fool. You could only be betrayed by someone you trust and Harry was setting himself up for the fall. He didn’t know what form it would take. Would their return to school change Malfoy back to the way he had been before, only this time with powerful new insider knowledge of his target? Would he leak the truth about Harry’s home life to the media? Would he keep up the pretence, but secretly join Voldemort after all and turn spy? Would he even go so far as to kill him when Harry had his wand lowered, thinking he was greeting a friend rather than an enemy?

 

Reason, caution, paranoia – they all told him that trusting Malfoy was a mistake. Usually, Harry wasn’t the sort of person to trust easily. Hell, he _loved_ sooner than he trusted. He was even hesitant to open up fully to Ron and Hermione, and they were the two people he loved more than anyone else in the world, who had stuck by him through thick and thin, who had never given him reason to doubt them.

 

Harry had five years’ worth of reasons to doubt Malfoy right now. Two weeks of completely out-of-character behaviour should not be enough to erase all that bad history.

 

But Harry couldn’t seem to stop himself. It could have been because he was so tired, or because his defences were down, or because Malfoy’s reaction when he’d found out hadn’t been to laugh or immediately tell the world but rather to treat his wounds and try to convince him to save himself, or because the Slytherin prince periodically helped him with his chores when he didn’t have to, or because there seemed to be honest concern in those stormy grey eyes. Or maybe he was just a gullible idiot.

 

Whatever it was, Harry couldn’t muster the strength to resist. Even his trademark pride, which had so often in the past prevented him from accepting any form of help or compassion from well-meaning people, refused to protect him from this error in judgement that could have cataclysmic consequences.

 

He found himself depending more and more on Malfoy, and these illicit moments of freedom from his relatives, to keep him sane. The knowledge of his responsibility to the Wizarding world should have been enough to get him through these holidays, he knew, but if it hadn’t been for Malfoy, by now Harry might well have collapsed beneath Uncle Vernon’s blows and given up on ever trying to rise again.

 

He was ashamed to admit it, but talking to Malfoy was quickly becoming more therapeutic than writing letters to Ron and Hermione, and even Sirius, had ever been. They didn’t talk much, of course, but once in a while Harry would confide things in the other boy that he hadn’t told anyone else. Part of his mind would scream that he was only handing the Slytherin weapons that could – and almost certainly would – be used against him, but regardless the words continued to wander freely from his mouth.

 

“I didn’t understand it when I was younger,” Harry said quietly one time, as Malfoy gently rubbed bruise salve onto his arm to remove the deep black marks left by Uncle Vernon’s powerful grip. “I didn’t know what I was doing wrong, to make them hate me so much. I tried my best to obey all their rules, and work as hard as I could, and get good grades, and use perfect manners, and do everything else I could think of to prove to them that I could be a good son. But no matter what I did, it was never enough for them. I didn’t know why Dudley could scream and swear at them, and demand all number of toys and sweets, and never so much as clean his own bedroom, and come home from school with a report card full of Cs and Ds, and still they would never stop loving him.

 

“I guess an orphan can’t really expect to be loved by anyone else once their parents are gone, but when I was little I always hoped… I hoped I could earn my aunt and uncle’s love someday. I didn’t know back then that I was a freak, but they knew, and-”

 

“Freak?” Malfoy interrupted, knuckles whitening around the tub of salve.

 

“A wizard,” Harry corrected.

 

“Do you know the definition of ‘freak’, Potter?” Malfoy asked.

 

The corner of his lip quirked in a smile that wasn’t one. “I was always under the impression that they didn’t have a written definition – dictionaries would just have a picture of my face beside the word and that would be explanation enough.”

 

“That’s not funny.”

 

Harry shrugged. “My sense of humour isn’t really up to par at the moment, sorry.”

 

“A freak is a thing or occurrence that is markedly unusual or irregular,” Malfoy informed him, once again sounding remarkably Hermione-like.

 

“Your point?” Harry asked wearily.

 

“There may be a higher proportion of Muggles in the world than wizards, Potter, but there are still over a million people with magical blood in Britain alone. Ergo, being a wizard does not make you ‘unusual’ or ‘irregular’, rather your imbecilic relatives horrendously ignorant.”

 

Harry felt the hint of a more genuine smile appear on his face, but he had to point out, “You said markedly. And I don’t see anyone else walking around with one of these-” he gestured to his lightning-bolt scar “-on their forehead, do you?”

 

“Ever heard of the word ‘unique’? Or ‘special’, ‘exceptional’, ‘singular’, ‘extraordinary’?”

 

The beginnings of a small, warm glow was beginning in his stomach.

 

“Those useless Muggles have absolutely _no right_ to call you a freak, or any other derogatory name for that matter. And if I hear you refer to yourself by one of their lies again, I will wash your mouth out with a Scourigify charm.”

 

For some reason, the fact that Malfoy had on more than one occasion called Harry names like ‘Potty’ and ‘Scar-head’ didn’t seem to invalidate the indignation he was now expressing towards the Dursleys on his behalf.

 

“Aunt Petunia tried to do that to me once, the Muggle way,” Harry told him, “for saying the word ‘magic’. But when she finally managed to pry my mouth open and get the bar of soap in there, it transfigured into chocolate. It tasted just like Honeyduke’s best, too, now that I think about it. I wonder if I’d had some when I was a baby…” A wistful smile spread over his features, as he tried to picture the irretrievable, or possibly non-existent, memory. “I can’t imagine my mother letting me eat chocolate before I’d even turned one and dad probably wouldn’t have risked crossing her… I bet it was Sirius. Sounds like something he would’ve done.” The smile faltered, but for the first time since his death, the ache of loss was tempered by fonder thoughts and memories of Sirius as he had been.

 

“He meant a lot to you, didn’t he?” Malfoy asked quietly.

 

Harry thought that he didn’t want to talk about it, that he would never want to talk about it because it was too painful. But he found himself responding and it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “Yeah, he did. He was a link to my parents that I’d never had before; my dad’s best friend, the best man at their wedding and the person they chose to be my godfather. He should have become my guardian when… when my parents died. But…”

 

“He went to Azkaban instead,” Malfoy filled in.

 

Harry nodded jerkily. “It wasn’t his fault. He was angry and grieving… no one could expect him to be thinking rationally right then. And he paid a high enough price for it.”

 

“So did you,” Malfoy pointed out. “Living with the Dursleys…” Realisation lighted his eyes. “When he finally escaped and you found out the truth about him, you thought he was your ticket out of here.”

 

“Maybe,” Harry conceded, feeling somewhat guilty. “I wanted so bad to get out of Privet Drive… but it wasn’t just that. Even if I would never get to live with him, it was just nice knowing that I had someone… someone outside of Hogwarts who cared about me, someone to give me advice, someone to send letters to and know that they would write back, someone who could tell me stories about my parents, someone who would celebrate my victories with me, and comfort me in my defeats, and…” He was choking up, unable to continue, knowing that words couldn’t truly express everything that Sirius had represented in his life that had been missing before, and was again.

 

“Someone who loved you,” Malfoy said simply.

 

Harry sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Malfoy tried, but Harry moved away from him then, standing up, retreating to the window, folding his arms across his chest protectively. He couldn’t handle this now, just as he’d barely been able to stand it when Dumbledore had been giving him his own version of the same speech.

 

“Don’t.”

 

So Malfoy didn’t, and Harry was grateful.

 

It was as good a birthday present as he could have hoped for, given that Uncle Vernon had, undoubtedly, intercepted any gifts that had been sent to him by his friends.

 

Malfoy had no idea what day it was and Harry felt no need to tell him. The other boy had listened to the reminiscing of an orphan boy turned one year older without so much as note or recognition from his supposed family, and for Harry, it was enough.

 

ooOOoo


	12. Reasons to Hate the Dursleys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** M RATING AND WARNINGS APPLY FOR THIS CHAPTER: Language, Non-graphic depiction of rape***

Seated at the desk in his own bedroom for once, Harry was writing to his friends to thank them for their birthday cards and presents. Luckily, the cards – which Uncle Vernon had reluctantly passed on to him two days after the event – had mentioned what the presents had been and thus he was able to mention them in turn, as though he’d actually received them when in fact he had no doubt they had been burned or thrown away.

 

He reported that the day had passed quietly for him at Privet Drive, which they would expect. Responding to the news of the loss of Florean Fortescue, owner of the ice-cream parlour in Diagon Alley, was harder – Fortescue had been a decent, kind man who didn’t deserve to have his life end at the hand of merciless Death Eaters. Harry had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, wondering how many more innocent lives would be lost before Voldemort was defeated, if indeed Harry ever succeeded in taking down the insane megalomaniac. If he didn’t, the death toll would be even higher.   


Ollivander was gone, too, and while Harry hadn’t exactly been fond of the man he still felt a pang of sorrow knowing that he was either dead or captured, neither of which were a pleasant outcome. He shared Ron and Hermione’s incredulity that Karkaroff had survived an entire year after deserting Voldemort, so he focused on that rather than the unavoidable (yet probably unreasonable) guilt he felt over the others.

 

He heard the door open behind him and thought it might be Malfoy, which he wouldn’t have minded.

 

“Potter,” a voice said, and it wasn’t the familiar cultured tone he associated with the other wizard. It was Dudley.

 

Harry turned reluctantly. Sure enough, the massive form of his cousin blocked out most of the doorway. He couldn’t identify the expression showing on that fat face, but it made him uncomfortable. Dudley didn’t usually come in here, unless it was to retrieve one of his broken toys or to tell Harry about some new mess that he had to clean up. This didn’t feel like either of those things, though, and Harry unconsciously inched his chair back until it hit the desk and could go no further.

 

“What?”

 

Instead of answering straight away, Dudley stepped into the room and closed the door.

 

Nervousness coiled in Harry’s gut – he hated not having an exit, being cornered like this. Hedwig hooted softly, as though to reassure him that he wasn’t alone.

 

“What?” he repeated, hoping that his voice sounded firmer this time.

 

Dudley smiled and it wasn’t friendly. It was downright feral. “You’ve been lying to my parents, Potter.”

 

“No…” Harry said slowly. “I don’t recall telling them that you were a wonderful human being any time recently.”

 

A frown flickered on Dudley’s brow, but he soon gave up on trying to riddle through Harry’s words. “You can’t fool me, Potter. I worked it out.”

 

“Worked what out, Dudders? That you’re even more stupid than you look, rather than equally so?”

 

Dudley’s face darkened. “No. I worked out what you’ve been doing in that other freak’s bedroom so much.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Cleaning, Dudders. Surely that didn’t take too much detective work to figure out? Although, with a brain the size of a pea…”

 

Dudley snorted. “Cleaning. Yeah, right. Mum and Dad might believe that, but I don’t.”

 

“You’re absolutely right, Big D,” Harry said sarcastically. “We’ve been playing chess with Aunt Petunia’s best set for an hour or so every day; don’t tell her.”

 

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Potter? But you’ve been careless. I know the truth about you and the blonde freak. After dear old Cedric and the way you two have been acting when you don’t think anyone’s looking, it’s bloody obvious.”

 

Harry was thrown by the callous mention of Cedric – it was an old wound now, but it still hurt, remembering that promising young man who should have had a long and happy life ahead of him. “What are you talking about?”

 

“You have been sleeping-” Harry was momentarily surprised that Dudley actually had it right, until “-with him.”

 

“Uh-”

 

“Doing it like the dogs you are,” Dudley continued.

 

Harry wasn’t sure he understood what Dudley was getting at. “What-”

 

“You and that Malfee retard are a _couple_ ,” Dudley announced triumphantly.

 

Harry very nearly burst out laughing. “I think you should stick to colouring books, Dudley. Complex deductions obviously aren’t your forte.”

 

“Why else would you spend so much time in there?” Dudley argued stubbornly.

 

“Malfoy and I aren’t even _friends_ ,” Harry said. Although, he wasn’t so sure that was true anymore. But either way, Dudley’s wild idea was completely ridiculous. Harry didn’t swing that way and he didn’t think Malfoy did either.

 

“So you’re not friends,” Dudley shrugged. “Doesn’t stop you from being fuck-buddies. Does he ride you good and hard?”  


Slightly nauseated, Harry turned away. “Shut up before you embarrass yourself even more, Dudley. You’re way off on this one.”

 

“So what have you been doing, then?” Dudley challenged.

 

“Cleaning.” Harry picked up his pen and continued the letter to Hagrid.

 

“I don’t think so. And if I talk to Mum and Dad about it, you know they’ll believe me. They won’t be too happy about you two getting it on in Aunt Marge’s bedroom and Dad hardly needs an excuse to punish you anyway.”

 

Harry knew the truth of that all too well, but he didn’t really care what Uncle Vernon would do to him. If Malfoy’s lack of animosity toward him came into light, though, Harry was worried that Vernon might not just stop at beating his nephew into a pulp.

 

“But,” Dudley said, “I won’t tell them what I know… If you do something for me, in return.”

 

Harry felt his blood run cold. He turned slowly and the smile that Dudley wore did nothing to relieve the fear he’d invoked with his words.

 

“Like what?” he asked warily.

 

“My girlfriend is on holiday in France, Potter, and I miss her dearly.”

 

Harry frowned. “I can’t bring her back with magic, if that’s what you want.”

 

“But I miss her so, Potter… With her gone, I’ve been feeling so restless, so unfulfilled, so… horny.” He grinned.

 

The nausea was returning swiftly, clawing its way up Harry’s throat.

 

“Tossing myself off just isn’t the same as thrusting my cock into a hot, tight channel, nice and deep, and pumping, pumping, until I burst inside them and ride it out to the delicious end…”

 

Harry gagged and backed up, but Dudley was moving closer and his piggy eyes were darkening with a sick hunger.

 

“You’ve been on your knees under that other freak, so you’re good and experienced…”

 

Harry’s back hit the wall, and Dudley was still coming. “No.”

 

“I’ll tell Mum and Dad what you’ve been doing, if you don’t,” Dudley threatened.

 

“I don’t care. Tell them whatever lies you want; I won’t do it.”

 

“You don’t get to refuse, Potter. You have to do whatever I tell you to, just like always. And I’m telling you now-”

 

“No!” Harry snapped. “Get the hell away from me.”

 

But Dudley didn’t. He came right up to him and seized his jumper in a fat fist, hot, fetid breath washing over his face. “Turn around and strip, Potter. Then kneel, just like you do for your freak boyfriend.”

 

“No.”

 

Dudley growled, making to grab his arm to forcibly twist him around, but Harry delivered a swift, hard jab to Dudley’s solar plexus. The other boy grunted, giving Harry enough of an opening to duck down and around him, breaking for the door.

 

It felt like a small truck ploughed into his back, tackling him to the floor. Harry squirmed and wriggled, adrenaline coming to his aid as he fought off his cousin.

 

“There’s – no – use – fighting this, Potter, I always – get my way – in the end.”

 

“Get off!” Harry’s elbow slammed back into Dudley’s nose. Dudley yelped and his considerable weight lifted off Harry – he started to scramble away, only for Dudley to pick him up and throw him across the room just as Vernon did so frequently.

 

Dazed, but unwilling to give up, Harry clambered to his feet, fists held before him at the ready as his cousin approached again.

 

Then Dudley stopped, eyes flickering to the desk and back to him. A gleam of anticipated victory replaced the anger that had been there only seconds before.

 

“You’re going to let me do whatever I want, and you’re not going to fight me.”

 

“Like hell!”

 

“You will, or I’ll snap the neck of your pretty little birdy and force you to cook her for our dinner tomorrow. Don’t think I can’t, or won’t. Dad will thank me; he’s wanted to be rid of that owl for years.”

 

Harry shot a glance toward Hedwig and she trilled at him. Before Malfoy had come to Privet Drive, Hedwig had been his only friendly company and only solace in this house. She didn’t think that he was a freak, she didn’t judge him, she listened to him when he needed to talk to someone. She was a beautiful and clever bird and Harry couldn’t bear to lose her, not so soon after losing Sirius.

 

“Don’t hurt her,” Harry said. He hated how weak his voice sounded.

 

“Do what I said, then.”

 

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to do it. Uncle Vernon’s beatings and vicious words were one thing, but what Dudley intended… He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It would take away the last of his dignity.

 

“Fine. I’ll kill her, then, since you obviously don’t care about what happens to her. Maybe I should pull out each of her feathers first, one by one…” Dudley took a threatening step toward the bird cage and Hedwig flared her wings in panic, her head swivelling to pin Harry with a look that said ‘Protect me!’

 

“Don’t hurt her!” Harry blurted frantically. He couldn’t let her die, not for this; it wasn’t her fault that this was happening. She didn’t deserve to die, just because of his stupid pride. It didn’t matter what Dudley did to him; his well-being didn’t matter, his life was worthless unless he was using it to save the lives of others. “I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t hurt her.”

 

Dudley moved towards him, wearing a dark grin. “You know what I want.”

 

Harry nodded wordlessly. Dudley’s hands reached for the knotted rope that held up his trousers and Harry held still, letting it happen.

 

Within him, he felt the last vestiges of hope, pride, dignity, and the last elements of what had been his identity, die. He was nothing, no one, a shell, a husk, a wand-wielding weapon, a dead man walking. Nothing mattered anymore. This didn’t matter. He didn’t care. No one did.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco was worried. Well, no, maybe not worried as such. Concerned? Mildly concerned.

 

Potter hadn’t made an appearance for hours now. He had vanished into his room to write letters to his friends, just as he did the evening of every third day. Draco hadn’t asked and Potter hadn’t told him, but he was fairly sure that this letter-writing routine was intended as a means for Dumbledore’s Order to keep tabs on the Boy Who Lived, acting as a failsafe of sorts so that if the letters didn’t turn up on schedule they would know to come charging to the rescue. Evidently Potter lied to them about his welfare, either as a matter of habit or because his uncle made sure of it, since no one had turned up to check on him at all these holidays.

 

If Potter wanted to keep his mistreatment a secret, that was his decision. But the point remained that writing the letters usually only took him half an hour and far more time had passed. Draco had become caught up in his exercise routine in the back garden – a necessary measure to keep himself in shape while energy-burning spell work was forbidden – and had been surprised to discover once he finally finished his cooling off stretches how long he’d been out there. Only after having a brief shower and then wandering around the house for ten minutes in a failed attempt to find Potter did he realise that Potter was still in his bedroom.

 

Standing outside the door, Draco couldn’t hear anything. Not the scratching of a quill on parchment, nor the deep restful breathing of sleep. But Potter had to be in there because he wasn’t anywhere else. Draco dithered, looking around for any nearby Dursleys and finding none, before quietly knocking.

 

No response.

 

“Potter?” he asked, knocking a bit louder this time. Still nothing.

 

 _He probably doesn’t want to be disturbed,_ Draco reasoned, but he didn’t leave. What if, while Draco had been occupied, the uncle had attacked Potter again? What if he was hurt, or unconscious?

 

He twisted the knob and cracked open the door a fraction.

 

“Potter?”

 

No reply, and from this limited vantage point he couldn’t see the other boy. The bed looked empty.

 

He pushed the door open more fully and stepped into the shadowed room. After a few moments he caught sight of a foot poking out from behind the bed as though Potter were lying on the floor.

 

Draco moved closer, figuring if Potter was sleeping he would just move him onto the bed where he could be more comfortable.

 

He got a more complete view of Potter, then – and jerked around so his back was to him. “Merlin, Potter, put on some clothes! I don’t really fancy you mooning me…”

 

And then the image of what he’d seen registered more fully in his mind. Yes, Potter was unclothed from the waist down, which was more than Draco needed or wanted to see… but he had also been covered in blood.

 

Draco slowly turned back around.

 

“Potter?” he asked hesitantly. The other boy wasn’t moving.

 

Draco didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to see this, but his eyes were apparently beyond his control at the moment, because he couldn’t stop them from taking in the discarded trousers, the torn boxer shorts, the rope that bound Potter’s abraded wrists to the floor end of the bedpost, the blood oozing out from between Potter’s legs, the indents of fingernails and dark bruises that marked his hips.

 

This wasn’t the result of just another beating.

 

This was… this was actually…

 

Even if Potter was gay, and Draco was fairly certain he wasn’t, there could be no doubt that this… this wasn’t consensual. Potter hated his relatives and they hated him. If this was what it looked like… and there could hardly be any mistaking it… then it was… it was rape.

 

Potter had been raped.

 

From the amount of blood, Draco surmised that this was the first time it had happened, but – but it didn’t make it any better. Potter had been raped. Violently. For his uncle’s, or his cousin’s, perverted pleasure. To hurt him. To degrade him more than he had been already by their beatings and verbal abuse and starvation tactics. Rape.

 

Draco’s stomach lurched and he bolted for the bathroom.

 

After five minutes of retching he’d graduated mostly to dry heaves, but his body still ached with horror and grief for this boy who he wasn’t even supposed to like, let alone care about. His imagination insisted on flashing images before his mind’s eye, of Potter screaming and crying as he was ruthlessly torn open and pounded into the floor, even though from what Draco knew of him he suspected barely a sound would have escaped Potter’s lips.

 

Draco was alternating between desperate fury at the Muggles who had done this to him and everyone else who had allowed it to happen, including himself, and the urge to curl up in a ball and howl at the injustice of a world where a boy who cared only for others could lose everything and then some.

 

His gut refused to settle, but he couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t leave Potter, alone and vulnerable like that, not when his rapist could return at any time. Draco wouldn’t let it happen again. He’d already failed Potter once.

 

He staggered back to Potter’s bedroom and the sight wasn’t any easier to bear a second time.

 

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god,_ Draco’s thoughts repeated in mantra. He didn’t know what to do, he couldn’t think of any way to make this better. He unbound the thin wrists, his own hands shaking so much that it took him a few tries, but then he was at a loss.

 

 _If… if I were in his position…_ Draco paled dramatically, balking at the very idea and almost making for the bathroom again. If he were in Potter’s position, he would be dead. He couldn’t survive something like that. It was a miracle that Potter had.

 

“C’mon, Potter… let’s… let’s get you cleaned up, at least.”

 

He pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around Potter as best he could, before lifting the smaller boy into his arms. He thought he felt Potter flinch at the contact, but he didn’t regain consciousness.

 

Draco walked to the bathroom slowly, careful not to jostle Potter too much, and then set him down gently on the tiled floor. He closed the door and locked it behind him, not eager for any interruptions.

 

In the act of carefully unwrapping Potter again, so he could try to wash off the blood with warm water and a soft cloth, Potter’s eyes suddenly snapped open.

 

“Don’t touch me!”

 

He was across the other side of the room before Draco could so much as blink, having wrenched the blanket out of his grip. He now held it in front of himself like a shield, but it shook with the force of the shivers wracking his frame.

 

“I won’t, I won’t, you can’t, please, I’m begging you, not again, please don’t, I can’t-”

 

Draco backed up so he would appear less threatening, raising his hands palm up to show that he didn’t intend any harm.

 

“Potter, it’s just me, I wouldn’t hurt-”

 

“Don’t hurt her!” Potter blurted.

 

_Her?_

 

“I’m sorry, I won’t fight, I didn’t mean to, you startled me, just please, please don’t hurt Hedwig…”

 

_Hedwig? The owl?_

 

Potter wasn’t making any sense.

 

Draco realised that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and even though Draco didn’t look anything like the cousin, they did have a similar hair colour, and in his current state it was possible Potter couldn’t tell the difference…

 

“It’s me, Malfoy, and I promise I won’t hurt you – or your owl. Okay?”

 

Potter stilled. “M-Malfoy?”

 

“Yeah. It’s okay, it’s over, I won’t let that bastard touch you again.”

 

Potter shook his head. “He’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt Hedwig. Can’t fight him, can’t stop him. Have to let him do what he wants. He always gets what he wants.”

 

Definitely the cousin, then. Draco had to choke back his fury, trying to stay calm for the benefit of the fragile boy standing before him. “Not anymore. I won’t let him; do you understand me?”

 

“Have to. Can’t use magic. Can’t leave.”

 

“Are you kidding?!” Draco sucked in a breath, but composure wouldn’t come. “There is no way I am letting you stay in the same house as a rapist! We’re leaving as soon as you get yourself cleaned up a bit.”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, if you want to leave straight away I don’t blame-”

 

“No,” Potter repeated. “We’re not leaving.”

 

“ _What_?! Potter, don’t be ridiculous, after this there’s no w-”

 

“There’s no point,” Potter interrupted, and Draco realised how dead his voice sounded. Those eyes too, those emerald eyes that usually shone so fiercely, were now completely devoid of life. “There’s no point anymore. It’s too late. There’s nothing left to save.”

 

“Potter…”

 

“No.” His tone was final, brooking no more discussion.

 

Draco’s shoulders slumped. “At least let me help you-”

 

“I can shower myself,” Potter said coldly. “Get out.”

 

Reluctantly, Draco retreated from the bathroom and had the door closed in his face. He refused to go any further, though, sliding down the wall into a sitting position to keep an ear and an eye out.

 

He heard the water start running, and no sound from any of the Dursleys to indicate they were awake.

 

As he waited, dark ideas of murder floated around his brain. He imagined sneaking into Dudley’s room and slitting that fat neck, or cutting off all his fingers and castrating the bastard, and _then_ slitting his neck. He deserved no better. And the uncle… If Draco were allowed to do magic right now, he would put a curse on that bloody belt so it would follow Mr Dursley around all day every day, beating him into a pulp. The aunt he would make clean until her fingers bled, and then clean some more. He would charm all their food to taste like ashes, and trap a Dementor beneath each of their beds so they would revisit their worst memories in their dreams every night.

 

They were all monsters. Potter had never done anything to warrant this level of abuse, but those bloody Muggles thought they had the right to treat him like dirt.

 

After experiencing the Cruciatus Curse, Draco had thought that he wouldn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone, but he had changed his mind. If Death Eaters were to turn up right now and start _Crucio_ -ing the Dursleys with abandon, Draco would feel no regret. He might even cheer them on.

 

They had made Potter feel worthless, called him a freak, hurt this innocent child in their care, taken away the spark in his eyes. This boy, forced to grow up too soon, burdened with so much grief and shouldering such responsibility, who would give his life in a heartbeat to save someone else’s, and they wouldn’t even show him a scrap of care, let alone the love he deserved.

 

 _How could anyone find it within themselves to treat an innocent person like that?_ Draco wondered silently.

 

A small voice at the back of his mind chose this moment to remind him of all the atrocities his own father had committed in the Dark Lord’s name to earn himself the ticket the Azkaban. He didn’t think rape was among them, but the elder Malfoy had tortured and murdered whole families of Muggles and Mudbloods… Did that make him any better than the Dursleys?

 

All of a sudden the so-called ‘superiority’ of pureblood wizards seemed like a load of crap. What did it say about them that they were so eager to join the ranks of an organisation that existed to inflict pain and subjugate people who had never committed any wrongs against them? And all for what? Power? The illusion of greatness? To earn fear, and imagine it to be respect?

 

Draco was ashamed. Ashamed of his father, ashamed of the belief system they’d lived by and advocated for… Ashamed of himself for coming so close to following in his father’s footsteps and for ever thinking that he wanted to.

 

 _I may be his son,_ Draco thought, _and he may have raised me, but I am my own person. I don’t have to be like him. I_ refuse _to be like him._

 

A few moments passed after this dramatic, if silent, declaration, and then Draco laughed quietly at himself.

 

 _Perfect time and place for a life-changing epiphany,_ he thought ruefully. _Middle of the night, sitting outside a bathroom._

 

He was growing numb, actually, which was an indication that he had been sitting in the one spot for too long. Time had slipped away from him again. He’d been waiting out here for over an hour and he could hear that the shower was still running. The water had to be freezing by now.

 

That worried feeling was coming back.

 

Draco stood up, absently shaking out the stiffness, and knocked on the door as loudly as he dared with the Dursleys sleeping nearby. “Potter?”

 

He wasn’t particularly surprised this time when he received no response, but he felt more hesitant about just barging in without permission.

 

It was probably a moot point anyway, because the door was sure to be locked… He tried the handle, expecting defeat, and was surprised when the door swung open.

 

Puzzling out why Potter wouldn’t lock the bathroom door while he was using it, and coming to suspect that it was yet another unreasonable rule set in place by the Dursleys, was interrupted by the sight that greeted him.

 

“Oh my god, Potter…”

 

He was huddled in the corner of the shower stall, the harsh spray of water pelting down on him, a stiff-bristled scrubbing brush in one hand and a bottle of bathroom cleaner in the other. He was attacking every inch of skin he could reach, apparently heedless of that fact that it had long since passed the raw stage and was now bleeding profusely.

 

Recovering quickly from the shock, Draco ran forward. “Stop it! Potter, stop, you’re hurting yourself!”

 

He wasn’t listening – he didn’t even seem aware that Draco had entered the room. He continued to scrub with a fervour that was frightening to witness, drawing blood that was swiftly washed down the drain only to be replaced by angrier blooms of red.

 

“…dirty, disgusting, filthy, worthless, foul, repulsive, dirty, disgusting…” He was repeating it, over and over and over, and just kept scrubbing as though it could somehow make him feel clean.

 

Draco was cursing himself for leaving Potter alone; he had fallen for the calm façade, when he should have damn well known better than to think anyone could come out of an ordeal like that emotionally unscathed.

 

“Potter, stop it,” Draco said again, dropping to his knees beside him, not caring that he was getting soaked by the freezing spray of water coming from above his head and the puddles he knelt in. Even with him so close, Potter didn’t acknowledge his presence, still mumbling and scrubbing frantically.

 

“Alright, enough!” Draco wrestled the brush and bottle out of Potter’s grip and threw them as far away as he could, then caught Potter’s hands up in his own before he had the chance to gouge out more skin with his nails. The other boy fought him, but he barely had any energy left and with their fingers firmly intertwined Draco was able to restrain him easily.

 

“Potter, I am not going to hurt you, and I am _certainly not_ going to let you keep hurting yourself. What those pathetic excuses for human beings have done to you is bad enough without you helping them by believing their lies and abusing yourself in their stead!”

 

“…filthy, worthless, foul…”

 

“No!” Draco almost yelled, and it took conscious effort to lower his voice. “No. What happened tonight wasn’t your fault. You were the victim in this, there’s nothing you could have-”

 

Green eyes flashed up to look at him and they were full of such self-loathing that Draco nearly recoiled. “I let him,” Potter gasped out and started struggling again. “I – stopped fighting – I let him – let him do that – to me – and nothing – nothing can change that. I’m dirty, disgusting…”

 

Draco’s brain was hastily trying to connect the dots. “Because he was going to hurt Hedwig if you didn’t, right?”

 

Potter jerked his head in the affirmative, his face a picture of anguish.

 

_Oh, Potter… is your own life worth so little to you?_

 

“I couldn’t – I couldn’t let him kill her… too many people have died for me, because of me, and I can’t get their blood off my hands, not ever, and I didn’t want Hedwig to die just because, just because I wouldn’t let Dudley – so I did, and now I’m – I’m dirty, pathetic, and if anyone knew – knew what I did, they’d be so disappointed in me…” He was straining to pull away, but Draco refused to let him.

 

“Potter. Potter, listen to me. _Harry._ ”

 

Potter was so startled by the use of his name that he froze and stared up at him with wide eyes.

 

“It. Was. Not. Your. Fault,” Draco said, enunciating every word with deliberate clarity. “You didn’t have a choice. Your cousin is bigger and stronger than you are; if you had refused to do what he wanted, he would have killed Hedwig and then held you down and raped you anyway.”

 

Potter flinched at the term he’d used, but Draco refused to call it anything else. Potter needed to understand that it had been rape, no matter what means his cousin had used to force him into it.

 

“And Potter…” Draco added slowly. “The urge to protect others is part of what makes you who you are. If you hadn’t done all you could to save Hedwig, you would have betrayed everything you believe in. And then… then I _would_ have been disappointed in you.”

 

Draco wasn’t sure if he should continue, but Potter was listening quietly, almost desperately, as though there might be some sort of salvation to be found in his words. “The same goes for what happened with your godfather,” Draco ventured, and Potter flinched again but didn’t yell at him for bringing it up. “You could no more abandon him when you thought he was being tortured than I could chop off both my arms and then catch the Snitch.”

 

Against his will, Potter’s lips quirked in a faint imitation of a smile. “You couldn’t catch the Snitch even _with_ both arms, Malfoy. Not playing against me, anyway.”

 

“And you don’t need arms at all, is that right, Potter? If I recall correctly, your preferred method is to nearly swallow it,” Draco teased.

 

“I only did that once,” Potter retorted and Draco detected the slightest flicker in his eyes. It wasn’t anywhere close to the blaze of passionate enjoyment that usually lit up those green orbs whenever Potter took to the skies, but it was something.

 

“It won you your first ever game,” Draco added, hoping to revive those good memories – well, good for Potter, not so much for Draco considering that Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin – so they could combat more recent memories that were considerably darker.

 

Potter gave him a sidelong look that was almost mischievous in nature. “The best part about that was seeing your reaction,” he said. “Especially when no one laughed at the quip you made about how a wide-mouthed bullfrog would soon be replacing me as Seeker.”

 

Draco scowled at the reminder, but consoled himself with the knowledge that his jibe had at least been remembered by its intended recipient. “I still maintain my opinion that Longbottom’s toad would have done an equally sufficient job,” he sniffed.

 

“Against Slytherin’s Seeker that year, I’m sure Trevor would have,” Potter agreed smugly. Draco’s hackles rose and he was ready to deliver a scathing reply when Potter added, “The new Seeker they got in the next year was a marked improvement, though.”

 

For a second Draco’s jaw was left hanging as he realised that Potter had just given him a back-handed compliment.

 

That hint of a smile was hovering on Potter’s lips and Draco was gratified to see it. But then his body chose this inconvenient moment to rebel against the cold and start to shiver, bringing them both back to the here and now.

 

Self-consciously, Potter pulled his hands out of Draco’s loosened grip and muttered a quiet, “Sorry.”

 

Draco shrugged. “I don’t mind a cold shower so much.” But, eager for the downpour of liquid ice to stop, he reached over Potter’s head and turned off the water. Anger flared in his gut as he noticed that only the cold water tap was on and immediately attributed this to yet another Dursley-imposed rule designed to make Potter’s life here miserable. He wondered if Potter had ever had a hot shower before coming to Hogwarts and added it to his growing list of Reasons to Hate the Dursleys.

 

With the flow of water ended, the quiet was more noticeable and Draco could find no words to fill it. Somewhat awkwardly, he stood up and retrieved his monogramed towel, offering it to Potter. For a moment he looked inclined to object, so Draco swirled it around himself, illustrating how the faint magic woven into it at its creation dried him off within instants, and held it out again.

 

Potter took it, then, nodding his thanks. Standing up from the crouch he’d been in for so long seemed to pain him, but he managed to keep his footing as he wrapped the towel around his near-skeletal frame. Draco expected to see a wince as the fabric came into contact with raw skin, but Potter’s features displayed only relief at the warmth.

 

“There’s a soft dressing gown in my room that you can use,” Draco said, reluctantly picking up Potter’s shirt and blanket and tucking them under his arm, then retrieving the scrubbing brush and bottle of cleaner from the corner and putting them back where they belonged. He had no desire to see Potter get into trouble for the state of the bathroom, especially not after a night like this one.

 

Potter followed him meekly back to his room, accepting the robe without a fight. He tried to return to his own bedroom, then, but Draco placed himself smoothly in his path.

 

“No. You’re sleeping in here with me tonight; no arguments.”

 

Fear flashed across Potter’s face and he involuntarily took a step back. Draco realised what it must have sounded like and he mentally kicked himself.

 

“No, I didn’t mean… Not like…” He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated that his usual articulateness had abandoned him. “I’m going to sleep on the floor, over there in the corner, and you can have the bed, alright? It’s just that it’ll be safer in here for you. I can’t leave you by yourself, not in there, not after…”

 

A dull flush crept onto Potter’s cheeks as he realised he’d misconstrued the situation. “You don’t have to…”

 

“I believe I said no arguments,” Draco said firmly. “Now go to sleep.”

 

To prove to both himself and Potter that he was serious about the offer, Draco nicked one of the pillows from the bed and a spare blanket from the wardrobe, then settled down as best he could in the corner.

 

Potter still stood in the middle of the room, looking lost and uncertain.

 

“Sleep,” Draco reminded him quietly. “I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.” _Not again._

Potter’s body trembled, but after another few moments of hesitation he slowly crawled under the covers, curling up tightly.

 

Draco could hear his unsteady breathing, knew he was terrified of letting his guard down, and couldn’t blame him.

 

“It’ll be all right,” Draco said softly. “Trust me.”

 

A few beats of silence.

 

Then an exhaled, “…okay...”

 

ooOOoo


	13. Resistance

 

The next morning, Draco was awake in plenty of time to watch the sun rise.

 

What little sleep he had been able to get had been plagued with nightmarish flashes of Potter’s abuse; his relentless imagination fuelled by everything he had seen and heard and deduced and guessed at. He wished he could blame his restless tossing and turning on the floor that, while plush, was no substitute for a real mattress, but he knew that the real reason for it was that each of the images conjured by his unconscious mind had caused his body and soul to jolt with revulsion. He couldn’t bear to remain sleeping, even though he was tired and even though reality was hardly more pleasant.

 

Elbows resting on the window sill as he gazed out at the world, Draco wanted to enjoy the sight of gorgeous reds and oranges and yellows spreading across nature’s great canvas, the sky. But he couldn’t help but recall Potter’s words: ‘ _It just means the start of another day.’_

 

Another day in which Potter had to live with the memories. Another day that they had to spend in this house. Another day that would no doubt see Potter copping more insults and abuse from his relatives. Another day that Draco would be forced to spend keeping his mouth shut, virtually helpless, because Potter wouldn’t leave. Because Potter didn’t care enough about his own life to risk anyone else’s.

 

Draco hated it. He wished that the night could be interminable, that the sun would return to its hiding place on the other side of the world, so the Dursleys would remain virtually harmless in their sleep and Potter could be allowed to rest and recover indefinitely. He wished that he didn’t have this insight into Potter that made him realise that he was taking Draco’s life into the equation and it was a large part of the reason why he wouldn’t simply run away. He was setting the value of _Draco Malfoy’s_ life above his own, even though they had spent the past five years bickering and fighting and generally hating each other’s guts.

 

Draco hated it, hated _all_ of it. Hated feeling guilty about his role in this, hated knowing the truth about the Dursleys and being sworn to secrecy, hated watching Potter take each blow that came his way as though it were unavoidable or somehow deserved, hated that he couldn’t convince Potter to leave, hated that a part of himself was relieved that his life would remain protected behind these wards even at Potter’s expense… Hated the _bleeding sun_ for looking so pretty and innocent like all was right with the world when it BLOODY WASN’T!

 

He flung the curtains over the window with more force than necessary, unable to stand the sight for even a moment longer. By rights the sky should be screaming in sympathy with Potter’s pain – with juddering thunder and slashes of lightning and torrential rain – since Potter wouldn’t, or couldn’t, adequately let it out himself. Blue skies and bright yellow sunshine was… was sick and wrong!

 

Breathing raggedly, Draco turned his back on the no-longer-visible offender and leant against the wall.

 

His gaze was now caught by the still tightly-furled figure taking up a fraction of the bed’s space. Potter’s face was so much more expressive when he wasn’t conscious; Draco could clearly read discomfort, distress, even hints of pain on those features when they should have been relaxed in sleep.

 

The kid just couldn’t seem to catch a break, could he?

 

Draco wished he still had some Dreamless Sleep potion but it had run out a few days ago. Considering what his own nightmares had consisted of last night, and the far more extensive material that Potter’s mind had to work with, Draco had no doubt that Potter wasn’t having a good time of it.

 

So Draco was able to feel slightly less guilty about his decision to wake Potter up. If Draco had known how to use those strange Muggle contraptions in the kitchen, or any idea how to cook at all, he might have left Potter to rest as he could for a while longer, but as it was Potter needed to get up. Another missed breakfast was sure to infuriate Mr Dursley and Draco didn’t want to risk it on top of everything else. If Potter was able to get everything ready before his relatives woke up, he could escape to the garden and hopefully avoid having to confront his assaulter.

 

The thought of Dudley sent a hot swoop of anger through Draco’s stomach. His new-found desire not to become like his father was adamantly at war with the vindictive, vengeful side of himself that wanted to see the fat Muggle boy suffer for what he’d done.

 

Draco clenched and unclenched his hands a few times in an effort to control the rage pounding through his veins and was marginally successful.  At least, he was fairly certain that he had curbed the impulse to _Avada_ the evil bastard. For now.

 

“Potter,” he said, approaching the bed but not getting too close. He raised his voice. “Potter, time to wake up.” It was tempting to tap Potter on the shoulder or give him a brief shake, since those were two of the most assured ways to awaken a person, but Draco knew better than to attempt it. Potter would probably think he was being attacked again and Draco didn’t want to be the cause of that. He also didn’t want to disturb the Dursleys, so he couldn’t speak much louder either.

 

His lips twisted as he considered the dilemma, before he hit on the solution.

 

“Harry.”

 

The effect was startling. The pained grimace on Potter’s face immediately faded into a more peaceful expression, his body stretched out of the cramped ball and his eyes slowly fluttered open.

 

It occurred to Draco at this point that only those people who had a close relationship with Potter, or at least an amicable one, ever called him by his first name. Others usually called him by his surname, as Draco did most of the time, or used his full name for emphasis. Mr Dursley and his wife were the exception; if they needed to get his attention they would call him ‘Boy’, as though he didn’t deserve any more of a title than this generic term. Dudley used Potter’s last name, which left no one in the house who would actually call Potter ‘Harry’. During the summer holidays, that one small word seemed to make a lot of difference. Draco decided it was now his little ace in the hole.

 

“Morning, Potter.” He wasn’t going to pretend that there was anything good about it.

 

Potter’s hand reached out blindly for his glasses, fumbling with disconcertment at their absence.

 

“Oh,” Draco said, wondering how he had managed to go the whole of their conversation last night without consciously noticing that Potter’s glasses were missing. “Your glasses are probably still in your bedroom… you’ll need a change of clothes from there, too, I can go get them-”

 

Potter frowned at him, then rolled into a sitting position at the edge of the bed and stood up.

 

Surprise splintered through his eyes, followed by a volatile mix of everything he had been feeling the night before – from pain and horror to self-loathing and fear. The tiniest of gasps escaped his lips and his knobbly knees nearly buckled but he grabbed the nearest thing for support; Draco was there in the space of a heartbeat, allowing Potter to grip his arm and steady himself.

 

“Easy there, Potter,” he said gently. “Take it slow.”

 

Potter nodded, sucking in a few deep breaths before attempting his first step forward. Draco moved with him, noting the pained awkwardness of Potter’s movements and hating that he knew the cause. Unfortunately, none of the potions he had were designed to fix… internal… injuries like that, inasmuch as he wished he could help Potter to remove the constant reminder of what had been done to him.

 

“You right?” he asked, as Potter hesitated again.

 

Potter’s eyes drifted shut and he inhaled deeply. When they opened again, the emotions were gone, replaced by… nothing. Emptiness. “I’m fine.”

 

Draco severely doubted the truth of that statement but he didn’t contest it, nor did he object when Potter pulled away from him to walk stubbornly on his own. Draco followed him, though, not about to let him face the room where it had happened alone.

 

When they entered Potter’s bedroom, the black-haired boy showed no sign of tentativeness. He strode inside and walked around the bed to retrieve his glasses from the corner. The expressionless mask didn’t falter and Draco wondered if Potter’s poor vision had enabled him to somehow miss the sight of the bloodied carpet, the crumpled and torn garments, the rope that had bound his hands. Draco’s own stomach lurched sickeningly, as the image from last night superimposed over the present, but he had nothing left to expel.

 

Potter slipped on his glasses and involuntarily his gaze dropped to the ground. He paled, then, and swallowed convulsively once or twice, but at the quiet clicking of a beak he found the strength to wrench his eyes away and step over the mess.

 

“Hey Hedwig,” he murmured to the snowy owl, slipping a finger through the bars of the cage to let her nibble on it gently, then as she ducked her head he obligingly stroked the feathers that came within reach. Draco was no expert in reading the expressions of birds, but he thought those large eyes seemed to be filled with sorrow as she stared at her wizard. Draco wondered if she understood what had happened last night, what Potter had sacrificed for her.

 

“You’re alright, beautiful,” Potter continued, as though needing to assuage her fears, though possibly doing more for his own. “You’re okay.” Lower. “It was worth it, to keep you safe.” She hooted quietly, in what might have been thanks for his protection. “I’ll get Uncle Vernon to check over these letters and then he’ll let you out to carry them. Stay with the Weasleys for a couple of days, until it’s time for the next batch to go out. Dudley won’t be able to get to you there.”

 

Hedwig shifted her feet restlessly, as though uncomfortable with the idea. “Oh, c’mon, Pigwidgeon isn’t that bad to live with.” A sceptical tilt of the head, to which Potter lifted an admonishing finger. “Don’t go picking any fights with him. Aloofness is alright, but no squabbles.”

 

Hedwig fluffed out the feathers on her chest and lifted her head, haughty and proud. Potter offered a faint smile, and smoothed the ruffled plumage. “That’s my girl.”

 

He lingered with his familiar for a few more moments, then moved to retrieve some clothes from the drawers. He flicked a glance in Draco’s direction before shrugging as if to say, _I guess I’ve hardly got anything left to be embarrassed about._ Draco turned his back anyway, trying to afford Potter some degree of privacy as he changed.

 

“Thanks for the robe,” Potter said after a minute or so, and Draco turned to see that he was once again dressed in over-large, drab clothing that was undoubtedly handed down to him from his cousin. Draco had to suppress a shudder at the thought of Potter having to even touch anything that had belonged to that repulsive brute, but if Potter was bothered by it he didn’t let it show.

 

Draco took the robe that was offered to him, distracting himself from the traces of blood visible on the inner lining by saying, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell any of the other Gryffindorks that you were wearing a dressing gown adorned with the Slytherin crest.”

 

“You better not,” Potter mock-threatened in return, though Draco could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

 

A couple of moments passed, and Draco filled in the silence with, “Well… I’m just going to put this back in my room.”

 

Potter nodded. “I should make a start on breakfast.”

 

“No, wait for me,” Draco said. He didn’t want to let Potter out of his sight for longer than a second; he had made that mistake yesterday, and the cost had been far too high.

 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Potter argued, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his tone.

 

Draco glared. “I told you already, I am not going to let-”

 

“And what exactly do you plan on doing if my uncle or Dudley-” an almost imperceptible flinch “-tries anything? They hate wizards, remember? The only reason they have been laying off you so far is because I-” He cut himself off abruptly.

 

Draco’s stomach lurched again as the implications hit him. “You – you mean, you…”

 

“Forget I said anything,” Potter muttered.

 

“They would have… been treating me… the same way that they treat you, if, if you hadn’t…”

 

“I said forget it.”

 

“You talked them out of it?” No, it couldn’t be so simple. “You took it in my stead,” he breathed. “If I did anything that didn’t like, or broke any of their rules…”

 

Potter’s twitch told him he’d guessed correctly.

 

“Potter, why on earth would you agree to-”

 

“It doesn’t matter, alright? Leave it alone.”

 

“You just as good as told me that I was a _direct cause_ of some the abuse you’ve copped these holidays!” Draco exclaimed incredulously. “And now you try to say that it doesn’t matter? My being here has just made everything worse for you!”

 

“No,” Potter said quietly, the irritation draining out of him. “That’s not true. It would be worse if you weren’t here.”

 

He said it with such sincerity that Draco was rather taken aback. If Potter had hated him before this summer, surely he had even more cause and reason to now.

 

“They should have had free reign to do whatever they wanted to me after Sirius... But they’ve been trying to keep it a secret from you, and so they haven’t been able to go all out. I haven’t been locked in my room once these holidays, and you’ve stopped them from punishing me too often, and you’ve done your best to take the pain away when they do. You’ve listened, and helped me, and… And I’ve never had someone like you, looking out for me, before.” He flushed and looked down at his toes. “I… I appreciate it, okay? And I’m sorry for snapping. But you can’t do anything more than you’ve been doing already. It’s too dangerous, for both of us.”

 

“I still think we should leave,” Draco tried again, all the more convinced that Potter should not remain in this house, if what had been happening to him so far was not the Dursleys’ idea of going ‘all out’.

 

Potter sighed. “You know why we can’t.”

 

Blood wards falling. Death Eaters lying in wait. The risk of death or capture. The risk to anyone else who took them in. The hinted at but never fully explained consequences for the Wizarding world if the Chosen One was lost.

 

Draco knew all of these reasons but, remembering the state Potter had been in yesterday, it was a struggle to believe those reasons were reason enough.

 

“I still don’t like it.”

 

“I’ll survive,” Potter said. “I always do.”

 

Draco wasn’t satisfied, but he didn’t argue it further.

 

“Wait for me,” he said quietly, and after a moment of consideration, Potter nodded.

 

Draco moved faster than he ever had on foot, tossing the robe haphazardly into his trunk and then catching up with Potter before he’d moved much more than a few steps across the landing.

 

“So what’s for breakfast?” Draco asked as they entered the kitchen, trying to keep his voice light and pretend that this was just like any other normal day.

 

“Aunt Petunia mentioned to Uncle Vernon yesterday, not so subtly, that she’s been craving croissants,” Potter explained, pulling a large packet of ready-made pastries from the pantry, as well as butter, cheese and ham from the refrigerator. “He cuffed me on the back of the head for failing to make them that morning – as though I should have been able to read her mind – but gave me a day’s grace.”

 

“You can’t ‘read’ someone’s mind,” Draco said indignantly, his belief in the stupidity of Potter’s uncle reaffirming itself for the umpteenth time. “The mind is not a book; it is inestimably more complex than that. A wizard – even a talented Legilimens – can’t just look into a person’s brain and ‘read’ thoughts like they were conveniently etched-”

 

“Oh god, it’s like you’re a blonde version of Snape,” Potter groaned, quoting in a rather good Potions-Professor impersonation, _“‘Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader… however, those who have mastered Legilimency are able, under certain conditions, to delve into the minds of their victims and to interpret their findings correctly…_ ”

 

“Well, quite,” Draco said, surprised that Professor Snape would have had a discussion like this with Potter. Legilimency and Occlumency were not covered in the usual Hogwarts curriculum and Professor Snape was not inclined to offer students – even Slytherins – private lessons… Draco’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t Remedial Potions that you were doing with Professor Snape last year, was it?” He didn’t need Potter’s brief nod to confirm it; he remembered that Potter had mentioned Occlumency in the letter he’d written to his godfather – something to do with not trying hard enough to learn it. “That isn’t fair; why would he teach _you_ such an advanced branch of magic?”

 

“Dumbledore’s orders,” Potter said curtly, slicing each of the croissants in half with more violence than was strictly necessary. “Of course, neither of them bothered to explain _why_ it was so important until it was already-” The knife jabbed viciously into his thumb and he hissed the last two words as he whipped the copiously bleeding digit away from the food, “-too late. Damn.” He ran cold water from the tap over his hand. The blood washing down the drain was disturbingly reminiscent of Potter’s shower last night. Draco tried not to think about it.

  
In lieu of a healing spell, Potter covered the small wound with a Muggle Band-Aid and returned to the task of making breakfast as though nothing had happened. Draco didn’t try to bring up the subject of Occlumency again, cottoning onto the fact that it was a sore spot for Potter.

 

Fifteen minutes later the delicious aroma of melting cheese and warm pastry filled the kitchen. Draco could hear sounds of movement coming from upstairs and he asked nervously, “Is it nearly ready?” Dudley was usually the last to come down, but even so…

 

“Yeah,” Potter answered, loading up a plate with the croissants that were already done, scooping the sliced strawberries off the chopping board and adding them to the large bowl of fruit salad, putting on the kettle and getting out crockery and cutlery with which to set the table.

 

Knowing at least how to handle this aspect of the affairs, Draco stole the plates and bowls from Potter’s hands. He set one of each down at the three usual places around the table, then nicked the cutlery as well and lay it out neatly.

 

Potter took the assistance in his stride, focusing his attention on the remaining croissants.

 

Footsteps on the landing.

 

“Potter…”

 

The tension in his shoulders increased ever so slightly. “Almost done.”

 

Draco moved the fruit bowl to the table, retrieved a serving spoon for it, then pulled the heavily laden plate of croissants out from under Potter as soon as he’d added the last one to the pile. Once that, too, was on the table, Draco caught Potter’s sleeve and tugged him toward the back door.

 

Potter followed without resisting, though there was no fear evident on his face to rival the dreadful twisting in Draco’s gut save that he was a shade paler than normal. Draco knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that acting as though Potter was going to be brutally attacked if he so much as stood in the same room as his relatives was not going to make this situation any easier for Potter to bear. He also knew that he couldn’t keep Potter from interactions with his relatives indefinitely. But he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want Potter anywhere near his abusers, not if it could be avoided, and right now it could.

 

“So the hedge is about due to be pruned again, right?” Draco suggested, moving to retrieve the shears from the tool shed. He was halfway there when he heard a shout from inside the house.

 

“BOY!”

 

Draco stiffened, turning wide eyes to Potter who had also stopped still.

 

“ _Where’s my coffee?!”_

Potter’s lips parted into an ‘O’ of surprised recollection; in their haste to get out of the house, both of them had forgotten about Vernon’s morning coffee.

 

“I’ll get it and be back in a minute,” Potter told him, gesturing that he should go on ahead.

 

 _Fat chance,_ Draco thought, following him back to the kitchen. To his immense relief, the cousin hadn’t made an appearance yet. Only the aunt and uncle were there, seated at the table and already starting in on the meal their nephew had prepared for them.

 

Rage boiled in the pit of Draco’s stomach. Instead of thanking Potter for his efforts and his culinary talents, Mrs Dursley had eyes only for her bowl of fruit, and Mr Dursley was glaring at the black-haired boy making his coffee with outright hostility. _Do you know what you’ve raised your son to be?_ he wondered. _Do you care? Would you have watched, if you could, and gotten off on the pain and misery of your nephew too?_

“Sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Potter was saying, “I had to wait for the water to boil, and it… it slipped my mind.”

 

Mr Dursley opened his mouth, no doubt to say something cutting and unfair, but he saw Draco standing in the doorway – as Draco had intended – and closed it again with a snap.

 

“Morning,” Draco greeted them, more civilly than he felt. At this point, he was both grateful for the pureblood upbringing that had instilled such manners in him, as well as frustrated because if he were marginally more uncouth he would be willing to spout the obscenities that swirled through his mind at the sight of them. “Sleep well?”

 

“Excellently,” an uncultured voice drawled. Dudley stepped in from the hallway with a lazy, I-just-got-laid grin on his face. Draco wanted to punch him, especially when he saw Potter flinch and reflexively step further away. “I haven’t had such a good night sleep since my girlfriend left for the holidays.”

 

 _How the hell did a fat, ugly brute like you ever get a girlfriend?_ Draco’s mind snapped, and only immense self-control stopped it from rolling off his tongue. _Did you have to pay her? Or hire someone to Imperio her for you?_

 

“Has my popkin not been sleeping well?” Mrs Dursley asked, immediately concerned.

 

_Where was that concern when Potter’s magic left him unconscious and bleeding on the floor?_

 

“Oh, it’s all better now, Mum,” he reassured her. “I found the perfect solution and I reckon it’ll last me until she gets back.” He leered in Potter’s direction and Draco was glad that the other boy’s back was turned. It was clear by how his shoulders were lifted and tensed, however, that he had still heard and he knew what it meant.

 

Now Draco was torn between violence and the urge to puke again.

 

“Malfoy here gave me the idea, of course; credit where credit is due and all that.” Dudley winked at him and Draco wanted to gouge the fat boy’s eyes out. He understood the insinuation and his fury was bubbling closer to volcano point. He had to clench his fists to remind himself with nails digging into his palms that he had to stay calm.

 

The aunt eyed him suspiciously, but didn’t question it further.

 

“Is the coffee ready yet?” Mr Dursley asked, evidently controlling his tone so it sounded more conversational than demanding.

 

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Potter answered obediently. He turned with a steaming mug in his hand, steadfastly avoiding looking anywhere near his cousin even as he had to get closer to him in order to round the kitchen surface and approach his uncle.

 

Dudley was still smiling and Draco didn’t like it, not one bit. But all Potter had to do was deliver the coffee and then they could escape out to the garden and leave the Dursleys to their meal. Dudley wouldn’t try anything, not here, not now. It would be beyond stupid.

 

Dudley followed behind Potter and Draco tensed, but it made sense for the cousin to approach the table where the food was, it didn’t mean he was going to do something…

 

“Here, Uncle-”

 

And then Dudley stepped that one step closer, clapping an intimate hand to Potter’s rear and pinching savagely.

 

Potter yelped and gave a full-body jerk, launching himself forward, out of reach.

 

Uncle Vernon’s roar was loaded with pain and fury as the entire hot drink spilled liberally over him.

 

“YOU. BLOODY. CLUMSY. _IDIOT_!” he bellowed, jumping to his feet so fast that the table was knocked backwards. “THAT BLOODY _HURT_ AND I KNOW YOU DID IT DELIBERATELY! HOW DARE YOU! _HOW DARE YOU!”_

“It was an accident!” Potter squeaked in his own defence, even as Draco couldn’t help but throw in, “It was your son’s fault, not Potter’s!”

 

But Mr Dursley was not in any mood to listen. “I have had ENOUGH of this nonsense! I should have thrown you out the moment you got Dudley attacked by those Dementy creatures last summer! Or better yet, when you bloody blew up my sister! In fact, I should have done it as soon as that giant began to fill your head with dangerous ideas, and then had the nerve to use his _freakishness_ to give Dudley a tail! But we kept you, we still kept you, after everything you’ve done to us, after all the harm you’ve caused, purely out of the goodness of our hearts. This, though, _this_ is the LAST STRAW! I won’t have it anymore; do you hear me? THIS. IS. THE. END!”

 

Potter was cringing, Dudley was grinning and rubbing his hands together gleefully, Mrs Dursley had retreated from the table and watched the proceedings with tightly compressed lips.

 

Draco could barely move. The moment had come and he could hear Potter’s voice in his head telling him not to do anything, not to interfere, to quietly withdraw until it had blown over.

 

Mr Dursley’s face was a scalded red, but purple patches were appearing in his cheeks and a thick vein pulsed at his temple.

 

“Those blasted freaks will be after us if we kick you out,” he growled. “But I am going to _teach you a lesson_ once and for all! You are going to PAY for what-”

 

“Mr Dursley!” Draco interjected, unable to contain himself any longer. The man’s large hand stopped inches from Potter’s head. “You look like you are in some pain, sir, you should have a cold shower or put some ice on those burns.” He was straining to keep his voice steady and his words rational. “You know what Potter did was an accident. Don’t do anything now that you will regret later.”

 

“Accident?” Mr Dursley repeated dangerously. “No. That is always his excuse, but nothing that happens around this worthless freak is an accident. And you would do well to butt out of other people’s business. This does not concern you.”

 

Draco stepped forward. “Actually, how a fellow wizard is treated in your care _does_ concern me.”

 

The aunt gasped as though he’d used the Dark Lord’s name out loud and Potter moaned. His uncle’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

 

“How dare you use that filthy word in this house!” Mr Dursley yelled.

 

“Actually, it is a term far more accurate than ‘freak’,” Draco said, “And you don’t seem to mind letting that disgusting word leave your mouth, so there shouldn’t be a problem here.”

 

“Malfoy…” It was a whispered plea to let it go, but Draco wouldn’t. Not this time. He’d sat back and let this happen too many times already.

 

“Have you forgotten that you’re a guest in this house? And a bloody unwelcome one at that?”

 

“That is inconsequential. You are on the verge of inflicting yet another abusive beating on your nephew, and even if that sort of appalling conduct is not forbidden in Muggle society, which I doubt, it is absolutely against Wizarding law. And as your nephew is a wizard, that law applies here. I would tread carefully, if I were you.”

 

“You think I’m scared of your kind?” Mr Dursley snarled. “They need us. _You_ need us. We’re untouchable.”

 

“You think so?” Draco asked mildly, borrowing his father’s polite tone of disagreement that conveyed intimidation so artfully.

 

“Damn straight. We could throw your precious Boy Hero out into the cold and he wouldn’t last an hour before Lord Mouldywarts killed him. The same goes for you. And if your world were to ever take action against us, we could let it slip to normal people that we have been invaded and infiltrated by a host of dangerous magic wielders. I’d love to see how your wooden sticks hold up against our guns and nuclear bombs if it comes to an all-out war.” He gave a feral grin. “I’d be willing to bet you would all be wiped from existence within a year and the rest of us would be a lot better off for it.”

 

Draco processed these threats for a few moments. He knew that, if Potter’s aunt was to rescind his welcome in this house, the wards would fall. And he knew that the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was not a matter to be taken lightly, even if Draco didn’t know what guns or new-clear boms were. It seemed ridiculous that Muggles could pose any kind of threat to wizards, except that they existed in far greater numbers and the Wizarding world was currently at war within itself.

 

These were no idle threats. Even so, they were being used to convince him to allow Potter’s continued abuse and it was unacceptable.

 

“I think I understand you, sir,” Draco said slowly and a gleam of triumph entered those small washed out blue eyes. With his next words, it quickly vanished, to be replaced with disbelief and then anger.

 

“You are a Mean. Little. Man. You’re a bully, but more than that, you are an abusive son of a bitch. You’re an ignorant swine with no clue as to the appropriate way to raise children, going to both extremes of spoiling a child rotten and criminal negligence.

 

“Do you know what your problem is? It’s power. He has it. You don’t. There is a whole world of people out there who have more power than you could ever even dream of, and you can’t stand the fact that the evidence lives in your house, in the form of a scrawny, messy-haired boy with a scar on his forehead. You can’t have his power for your own, but you think that by controlling him, subjugating him, you will be able to _feel_ like you are powerful.

 

“You’re pathetic. You were given a child, brutally orphaned before he had even turned two, and all you had to do was care for him. If you had bothered to show even an ounce of interest in him or his life, you would have seen that this nephew of yours is a bloody _hero_. He is intelligent, talented, immensely powerful, as well as courageous, principled, determined, loving and fiercely loyal. This child that you have abused and neglected has grown into a man who is worthy of more admiration and respect than your puny little mind could even imagine.

 

“And you dare to call him a freak? To declare him worthless? Try looking in the mirror some time! Or take a look at your son, who is practically a spitting image. Aren’t you so proud, that the boy you lavished all your love – such as it is – and attention on has in fact become nothing more than a bully himself? He will go nowhere in life, unless it is to prison where he belongs!”

 

Potter’s aunt had a hand pressed over her mouth, her expression torn between shame and a mother’s indignation. Potter’s uncle was practically swollen with rage, incoherent splutters coming from his mouth. Potter himself was still cowering under the looming form of his uncle, prepared for a blow that he still seemed sure was coming. Draco thought he might have at least smiled as Draco extolled his virtues publicly, but if anything he only looked more terrified, like his world was coming apart at the seams. And Potter’s cousin-

 

Draco couldn’t see him. Before he had the chance to whirl around he felt his arms seized from behind.

 

“I think we’ve got another one here, Dad, who needs to be taught a lesson,” Dudley said. Draco could hear the malicious smile in his voice.

 

“Get your filthy hands _off_ me,” Draco ordered, trying to jerk away, but those meaty hands were remarkably strong. He couldn’t break their grip.

 

He struggled all the more violently, twisting and wriggling and straining, but the Muggle just pulled him closer. “Ooh, keep that up, little freak,” Dudley whispered into his ear. “Feels like you could be an even better ride than Potter was.”

 

Draco became aware, then, that there was a hard bulge in Dudley’s jeans that was pressing into his back. He wanted desperately to vomit, knowing that his fighting was only turning the depraved Muggle on more but unable to hold still when he could see that the uncle was approaching him with the promise of pain in those mean little eyes.

 

“I’ve obviously held out too long in teaching you your place in this household,” Mr Dursley growled. “I’ve trained the boy well enough; he knows not to ask questions, or complain, or talk back, or fight. And once I’m done with you, you will be just as weak, just as submissive…”

 

“Don’t bet on it,” Draco spat, trying to muster all of his repressed bravery. Slytherins weren’t supposed to participate in unequal battles, it was against their nature, but maybe there was a part of him, somewhere deep down, that had the courage of a Gryffindor, because he damn well needed a bit of courage right now.

 

“You’ll be singing a different song soon, freak,” Mr Dursley promised darkly, clenching one of his huge hands into a fist. He drew it back, aiming for Draco’s stomach, and Draco tensed, wondering how much it would hurt, wondering if he could bear it-

 

“No!”

 

A small figure with a mop of black hair ploughed into Mr Dursley from the side, tackling him to the ground before the blow had even begun.

 

“You can beat me up all you want, but I will _not_ let you hurt anyone else!”

 

Potter was kicking, punching, flailing, biting – fighting his uncle in the first show of resistance against him that Draco had ever witnessed. Draco had thought that was what he wanted, because the Potter he knew wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, just submit and take such treatment. But now he saw it for what it was. The equivalent of a tiny fish, butting up against the side of a massive whale in the vain hope of inflicting some damage. Potter didn’t stand a chance.

 

Draco himself struggled harder, needing to go to Potter’s aid before the uncle killed him, but in this position he had virtually no leverage, no way to break free or gain the advantage.

 

“Oh, big mistake Boy,” Mr Dursley snarled, jerking a knee up into the soft flesh of his nephew’s gut and knocking the wind out of him, then twisting more agilely than should have been possible for such a vast man and trapping Potter beneath him. He grabbed a fistful of Potter’s hair.

 

“Don’t!” Draco blurted helplessly, but there was nothing he could do-

 

Mr Dursley slammed Potter’s head against the hard tile floor. Then he lifted it a few inches, and slammed it down again. The _crack_ that sounded was sickening. “This. Is. What. You. Get. For. Daring. To. Defy. Me.”

 

The first few times, Potter jerked and gasped, but his movements became more sluggish and then a deep groan was cut off halfway through. His body fell limp.

 

“ _Stop it_ , you sadistic bastard!” Draco yelled.

 

“He asked for it. And don’t worry, your turn is coming.”

 

Potter’s head was repeatedly driven into the ground. A pool of blood was beginning to seep out across the white tiles.

 

“You’re gonna kill him!”

 

“Nah, Potter can take anything,” Dudley drawled. “Including my cock up his-”

 

“ _STOP IT_!” Draco bellowed.

 

ooOOoo

 


	14. What Comes Around

 

Magic exploded.

 

Glass and crockery shattered around them. Mr Dursley’s hand released Potter’s hair as though it burned and in the same instant he was sent hurtling backwards into the wall with a _crash_. Draco was dimly aware that the same had happened to the fat Muggle behind him; his arms were no longer restrained. His wand was drawn and the magic pounded through him, demanding to be released in vengeance against these monsters.

 

He lifted a shaking hand, his wand pointed directly at the uncle. “You,” he said, and his voice sounded dreadful and alien to his ears, “Will never again harm another living soul. You will never again lift a hand against your nephew. Each night in your dreams, you will relive what you have done to him as though it were being done to yourself. You will forever regret the day you first decided to abuse the wizard child in your care.”

 

He turned to Dudley, who finally had the sense to look afraid as he stared up at a wizard’s rage unleashed. “You,” and Dudley trembled at the utter menace in his tone, “Will never again bully another living soul. You will never again feel the arousal that enabled you to rape your cousin or sleep with your girlfriend. You will be a snivelling shell of the boy you once were and your friends will be the first to turn on you, soon followed by your victims. You will forever regret the day you first decided to make Potter’s life as miserable as you could.”

 

He turned finally to the aunt, who had escaped damage from the blast but stood cowering against the wall, as pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. “And You. Sister of Lily Evans, entrusted with the care of her orphaned son. You who know more of the Wizarding world than you admit, and you who understand better than the men of this family how important is the life of Harry Potter. You who know full well that how you have treated him, and allowed him to be treated, is a grave and unforgivable crime. You will be plagued by guilt, haunted by green eyes and bowed with shame, for every day of the rest of your life. The memories of what you did to your nephew will be there at every turn. You will never forget, and you will never forgive yourself. It will tear you up inside. You will forever regret the day you allowed Harry Potter into your home, but refused him entry into your heart.”

 

Draco slowly lowered his wand, and his voice was no longer laden with potent magic. “We are leaving,” he said quietly, but in the silence it was almost deafening. “Harry Potter will never be returning to this house, unless it is to exact greater vengeance on you all more personally. What I have done is less than you deserve. Fear wizards, Dursleys, for the wards that protected your nephew have also been your protection, even if you did not realise it, and they are gone now. As we soon shall be.”

 

He flicked his wand, knowing that at this moment he needed no incantations.

 

A few moments later a loud crash resounded from upstairs, and a closer one from just in the hallway. Potter’s trunk arrived first, its lid popping open to receive a leather-bound photo album, a loose photo of Lily and James Potter, and a large stack of the letters Potter had saved over the years. An empty cage appeared too – its usual occupant already freed and released from one of the upstairs windows – and settled into the trunk. Potter’s wand whistled through the air and Draco caught it neatly, tucking it into a pocket. Potter’s trunk closed and then spun, getting smaller and smaller and lighter and lighter until it, too, could fit in a pocket. Draco’s own trunk arrived soon after, followed by a stream of clothes and other belongings that were still in the process of packing themselves. Within a minute that trunk had shrunken as well and Draco tucked it away safely.

 

He then turned his attention to Potter, who had not stirred. The puddle around his head was thicker, wider, and still spreading.

 

Draco moved and dropped down beside him. It didn’t look good, but he refused to give into the panic fluttering at the edges of his mind.

 

“You’re going to make it, Potter,” he said firmly.

 

He touched a hand to Potter’s chest and momentarily closed his eyes, searching out with a different Sight for the intertwined coil of magic and soul he knew he would find there if he looked hard enough.

 

“There,” Draco whispered. He allowed a tendril of his own magic to snake through his hand and link with the small pulsing golden light.

 

Potter’s magic felt it, brushed against it uncertainly and then _tugged_.

 

Draco gasped, realising in that moment that what he’d just done had been incredibly dangerous. In unconscious desperation to keep Potter alive, his magic was using the link to drain as much power from Draco as it could.

 

“Oh, oh god,” he stammered, feeling as though his innards were being forcibly pulled out of him. “P-Potter, god, that _hurts_ …”

 

He bore it as long as possible, then wrenched his hand away to break the connection.

 

Potter was breathing, his pulse was stronger and his head had for the moment stopped bleeding. It wasn’t enough, but it would have to do for now.

 

Gasping and wheezing, his whole body shaking as though he’d just run a hundred-kilometre marathon without stopping, Draco scooped Potter into his arms. Leaving the Dursleys frozen in place, staring after him, Draco carried his charge out of the kitchen, down the corridor – absently noticing that the door of the cupboard under the stairs now had a trunk-shaped hole smashed through it – and out the front door.

 

An unmasked MacNair was standing there, waiting for him, grinning. The Death Eaters knew that the wards had fallen.

 

Draco still grasped his wand, but he couldn’t do any effective spell-work while holding Potter. He knew that he had only a split second to do something before they were both dead.

 

A million and one ideas with all their pros and cons spun through his mind in a whirlwind, and one stood out prominently. He didn’t have his Apparation licence yet and he hadn’t even had any lessons, but he had side-along Apparated a few times and he knew the general principle. It was horribly risky, but better than standing here waiting to be murdered. He didn’t even know what location to aim for – going home could well land them in the midst of even more Death Eaters, Professor Snape was undercover as a spy among the Death Eaters, pretty much all his friends had Death Eater sympathies (or at least strongly disliked Potter), Hogwarts was warded against Apparation, Saint Mungos was too public, and it didn’t leave him many options…

 

Draco threw his last hope to the heavens and twisted on the spot even as a jet of red light was forming at the end of MacNair’s wand.

 

They entered the crushing darkness.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Ginny, did you get a letter from Harry yesterday?” Ron asked as he entered the kitchen of the Burrow, a worried frown creasing his brow.

 

She glanced up from her toast, flipping her long red hair behind her shoulder to look at him properly. “No. Why? Didn’t you?”

 

Ron shook his head, plopping down absently into a chair and picking up a sausage. He shoved it into his mouth, chewing distractedly.

 

“I didn’t either,” Hermione joined in the conversation, surfacing from the detailed explanation of Muggle elevators she had been giving to Mr Weasley (“They only go up and down, really? How peculiar!”).

 

“Maybe he just forgot?” Mrs Weasley ventured uncertainly, turning her attention from directing the self-washing pots and pans.

 

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “He knows that we’d take four days in a row without any news from him as a sign that something was wrong.”

 

“Something _is_ wrong,” Ginny said heatedly. “He’s grieving for his godfather and he’s living with people who wouldn’t give a damn! I can’t _believe_ Dumbledore would force him to-”

 

“Don’t forget about Malfoy,” Ron interrupted, glaring fiercely.

 

“Harry hasn’t said that things are bad…” Mr Weasley tried, sensing the growing agitation of his children and guest.

 

“Of course he wouldn’t, this is Harry we’re talking about!” Ginny exclaimed. “But there’s no way they could be good, no matter what molly-coddling lies he comes up with in those letters. He’s probably spent the past month beating himself up over what happened at the Ministry and we’re not there to help him!”

 

“But there’s no reason to think that anything worse is going on,” Mrs Weasley said. “He’s a very resilient young man, I’m sure he’ll be able to bounce back from this okay…”

 

“He’s missed his scheduled letter-sending,” Hermione said. “We all agreed that would be a warning sign.”

 

“Yes, dear, but maybe his owl just got lost or something…”

 

“Hedwig?” Ron said incredulously. “Not likely. She’s about five classes above Errol and Pig – I don’t think she _could_ get lost. Besides, she’s flown here loads of times.”

 

“Yeah,” Ginny agreed. “Something’s up. I vote we go over there right now and find out what’s going on.”

 

“Let’s not use the Floo this time, though,” Ron said, smiling despite himself. “That didn’t end up too well.”

 

“Elektrik fireplaces!” Mr Weasley said, excited by the memory. “What strange and wonderful things these Muggles come up with.”

 

“Arthur, dear, let’s not get distracted. Harry’s welfare is the most important thing at the moment.”

 

“So we’re going then?” Ginny said.

 

“Well, maybe we should wait a bit, talk to Albus about it first…”

 

The children in the room erupted with protests then, outraged at the thought of delay when their friend could be in trouble.

 

A loud and rather violent _CRACK_ came from outside and silenced them all for a split second, before they were all yelling over each other different variations of ‘What was that?’

 

“Sounded like someone Apparating,” said Ron.

 

“Or a car backfiring!” said Mr Weasley eagerly.

 

“If it was Apparation, the person doing it isn’t very skilled or experienced, because ideally one should be able to vanish and appear silently, or with but the faintest of popping sounds,” contributed Hermione.

 

Ginny, quite logically, simply walked to the front door and opened it to have a look for herself. Then she shrieked.

 

“ _HARRY!”_

 

The other inhabitants bolted to join her – and two sets of footsteps on the stairs indicated that Bill and Fleur were coming down to investigate as well – but Ginny had already sprinted outside.

 

“Harry, _Harry,_ oh my god…”

 

Ron was trapped at the back of the group; he could hear the various sounds of distress and horror coming from his family and he knew it had to be bad, but he couldn’t _see_ anything, then Hermione said “Malfoy?” and Ron yelled “I knew it!” and finally burst through.

 

The first thing he noticed was Harry – gaunt faced and ashen and covered in blood that was dripping liberally from his sodden hair. He was unconscious, upright only because of the arms that held him… Malfoy’s arms.

 

“Oi!” Ron yelled, but here too Ginny had already beaten him to it.

 

“What the hell have you done to him, you monster!” she was shouting, trying to pull Harry out of his grasp.

 

“Cut it out, you crazy bitch-” Malfoy was arguing.

 

“Hey!” Ron objected.

 

“-you’re making it-”

 

“You can’t call my-”

 

“-worse! Potter needs-”

 

“-sister that, you-”

 

“-immediate medical attention, not-”

 

“-evil git-”

 

“-a stupid tug of war between the two of us-”

 

“-I’m warning you, you bloody well better do what she says, and-”  


“-so unless you know some damn good healing spells-”

 

“-let Harry go, or else!” Ron ended, but Malfoy was still going.

 

“-then I suggest you find someone who does! Potter could be dying!”

 

That shocking pronouncement froze Ron still for a split second, and then he was shouting again. “That’s just what you want, isn’t it? You’ve been trying to kill him for years and now you’ve finally managed to catch him off guard-”

 

“It wasn’t _me,_ you idiot! Do you really think I would be stupid enough to hurt Potter and then bring him here myself so you could all murder me? I know it’s hard for you, but try for once to use your head-”

 

“ENOUGH!” the normally docile and laid-back Mr Weasley bellowed. Ron froze in the act of launching himself at Malfoy.

 

“The who, how and why doesn’t matter right now,” Mr Weasley continued when he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “As Mr Malfoy has said, Harry needs urgent medical attention – that looks to be a serious head injury. Molly, go inside, grab all the healing potions we have. Ron, put a clean sheet on the couch in the lounge room. Ginny, Floo-call Hogwarts and check if Madam Pomfrey is available – if she is, get her here as soon as possible, if not, Floo-call St Mungos and ask for Healer Freeman. Bill, check the wards, make sure we’re not about to receive any more unexpected visitors. Mr Malfoy, please pass Harry over to me, I’ll carry him the rest of the way. And Hermione, look after Mr Malfoy – he looks about ready to collapse.”

 

Everyone scurried to obey his orders. Once he had been transferred into Mr Weasley’s arms, Harry was whisked inside. Malfoy watched him go with an odd expression on his face. Then his legs gave way beneath him.

 

Hermione automatically darted forward to catch him before he hit the ground, but withdrew her hands as soon as she was able so that the pureblood-maniac wouldn’t have time to complain about being touched by the hands of a Muggle-born. Oddly enough, the thought hadn’t even seemed to cross his mind.

 

She noticed for the first time, then, that Malfoy was dramatically pale and the blood that covered him wasn’t just from Harry. A chunk of flesh was missing from his left arm.

 

“What happened to you?” she asked, even though what she really wanted to know was what had happened to Harry.

 

“Splinched myself,” he bit out, looking down briefly at his arm before hurriedly moving his gaze elsewhere. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Harry so Hermione wasn’t as bothered as she might otherwise have been.

 

“You Apparated without a licence?” she asked, already knowing the answer from the novice _crack_ they’d heard before and the fact that Malfoy’s birthday wasn’t for another few months.

 

“Didn’t have much of a choice in the matter,” he grumbled. “At least I didn’t lose anything more important.”

 

“Like Harry?” Hermione asked, in a tone that was deceptively mild.

 

He shot her a look, then said shortly, “Yeah.”

 

Ron might have been surprised by the reply, but Hermione was already convinced that Malfoy hadn’t been the one to hurt Harry. He looked so worried, he’d risked splinching himself and being torn apart by a mob of protective Weasleys to bring Harry here, and a true Slytherin – which Malfoy certainly was – really wouldn’t be so stupid as to show up carrying the evidence of his crime with him.

 

“So how did-”

 

He raised a hand to stop her.

 

“I’ll explain once, to everyone, when Potter is out of danger,” he said. “If it isn’t already bloody obvious,” he continued in a mutter.

 

Hermione frowned, but didn’t ask again.

 

“Do you want me to fix that for you?” She pointed to his arm.

 

He arched an eyebrow. “Do you know _how,_ Granger?”

 

“Well, I was reading up about Apparation because I knew we’d be studying it at school next year, and I came across the issue of Splinching, so I thought I’d research the remedies and healing spells for it just in case-”

 

“Granger!” Malfoy snapped exasperatedly. “Can you or can’t you? It’s a simple question, not an essay topic requiring five roles of parchment!”

 

Hermione coloured. “Yes, I can.”

 

“Then do it.” A beat of hesitation before he reluctantly added, “Please.”

 

Hermione was pleasantly surprised by his unexpected use of manners. She cast a quick spell to numb the area first, and he breathed an audible sigh of relief. It had been hurting him more than he’d let on, then, which was yet another thing that was out of character for him today. She used an adapted form of ‘Scourgify’ to clean out the wound, and carefully wove a series of enchantments to regrow the flesh and blood vessels and nerves that had been lost, covering it all with an expanse of smooth, unscarred skin.

 

“Good as new,” she told him. A few drops of Essence of Dittany would have worked just as well, but she didn’t have any on hand and it was more satisfying to wield the magic herself, especially since she hadn’t used her wand all holidays. Technically, using magic outside of Hogwarts while still underage was forbidden, but Hermione knew that The Trace was unable to distinguish between adult and minor magic usage, so while in a wizarding household like The Burrow her actions would go unnoticed by the authorities. Even so, she wouldn’t have broken the rule just for the sake of it.

 

Malfoy rolled the shoulder experimentally, stretched him arm out to the side and finally ran the fingers of his other hand over where the wound had been.

 

“Good job,” he said grudgingly, as though he had hoped to be able to find some reason to criticise her work but had come up empty. “It feels much better. Now if only Potter’s condition could be dealt with so easily…” He blew out a sigh and combed a hand back through his dishevelled hair.

 

“Your hair!” Hermione gasped. She’d never so much seen it with a single strand out of place before now.

 

“Oh, of course, Granger,” he said snidely. “How silly of me. I should have been focusing more on my personal appearance this morning and less on saving Potter’s life. When _will_ I get my priorities straight?”

 

“I didn’t mean – I think your priorities are, uh, admirable, if a little unexpected, I just-”

 

“Save it for someone who cares,” Malfoy said.

 

They fell into a quiet that was restless and uncomfortable, both of them shooting occasional glances at the door of the house, torn between wanting to check on Harry and staying out of the way. Hermione thought that Malfoy might also be reluctant to enter the Burrow because he thought himself too good for it, considering the number of insults he’d levelled at the Weasley home over the years. As far as she had seen, though, the blonde hadn’t sneered once at the somewhat dilapidated little building that looked to have had random sections added haphazardly on top until the laws of physics had to be defied by magic to keep it all from toppling over. Hermione herself loved it – she thought it suited the red-haired family perfectly and it was almost like a monument to the wonder of magic.

 

“To hell with this,” Malfoy snapped abruptly, clambering ungraciously to his feet. He looked unsteady, unbalanced, and Hermione was struck by the idea that maybe he shouldn’t be up and moving so soon. He seemed determined, though, as he strode toward the house, even if he wasn’t quite walking in a straight line.

 

“You didn’t just splinch yourself,” Hermione said, almost accusingly as she followed him. She hated it when people held out on telling her things like this. Harry was particularly bad with admitting when something was bothering him – Hermione still couldn’t believe that he had allowed Umbridge to torture him during his detentions and hadn’t said a word about it until she’d noticed the scars on the back of his hand. How was she supposed to help them if they wouldn’t tell her what was wrong?

 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said. There was a strain of remembered anxiety in his voice. “If I hadn’t done something immediately, he wouldn’t have made it even this far.”

 

“Alive, you mean.” Hermione didn’t really want him to confirm it, but he jerked his head in the affirmative. “What-” her voice broke at the thought of her best friend dying and she had to try again, “what did you do?”

 

“The only thing I could think of,” he replied. “My father taught me how to link my magic with someone else’s… He used to use it to steal magic from other people to add to his own.”

 

Hermione was outraged. “That’s-!”

 

“But I tried it in reverse,” Draco continued and Hermione was struck speechless. “I thought that if I could supplement his magic somehow it would have a better chance of keeping him alive until we could reach help. I wasn’t sure it would work backwards… But it did.” He shuddered. “I had no idea it would hurt that much.”

 

Hermione, brilliantly intelligent witch that she was, had trouble comprehending what Malfoy had just told her. She didn’t know the branch of magic he was talking about and she itched to look it up in Hogwarts Library, but she would bet that it was an extremely dangerous procedure. The transferal of magic from one person to another… Surely, if taken too far, the one from whom the magic was being drawn could run the risk of becoming a Squib. And even if that wasn’t a possibility, she still couldn’t imagine _Draco Malfoy_ voluntarily giving (or temporarily lending – she needed to research this more) any of his magic to anyone, let alone _Harry Potter._

 

Unless it wasn’t actually Malfoy? A person’s appearance could be altered to look like someone else through a variety of magical means – Polyjuice Potion, glamours and Metamorphmagus abilities were just a few examples. What else could explain Malfoy’s unnatural behaviour?

 

“When was the first time you called me a Mudblood?” Hermione asked.

 

He turned on her with a glare of incredulity and offence, nearly toppling at the sudden change of direction but managing to keep his footing. “I just told you how I risked my life to prevent Potter’s death and instead of calling me a hero you come up with a question that is completely irrelevant to the current situation?”

 

She folded her arms. “I need to know that you are who you say you are.” When he looked disinclined to acquiesce, she narrowed her eyes at him and drew her wand. “Answer me.”

 

He muttered something that she didn’t catch, then said, “Second year, the day I became Seeker for Slytherin. We had special permission to use the pitch for training, but the Gryffindor team wouldn’t leave and then _you_ stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong.”

 

Hermione bristled. “That didn’t give you any right to call me-”

 

“That’s not the point here, is it?” Malfoy interrupted. “I remember the incident; ergo I must be who I say I am. Except that there were fourteen other people there, so it’s hardly something only I would know about. You should have asked something like: in second year when Potter and Weasley illegally masqueraded as Crabbe and Goyle, what information did I give them that they then passed onto you?”

 

Hermione was caught a little off guard, and for a moment couldn’t think of what to say.

 

He smirked. “What? Did you think I wouldn’t work out what had happened after the _real_ Crabbe and Goyle came back with no knowledge of the conversation we’d just had, and a tale of mysterious muffins that led to waking up in a broom cupboard? I’m no Hufflepuff, Granger.”

 

“You – you didn’t tell anyone?”

 

He gave an elegant shrug. “I had no proof. Besides, it was the first time I’d ever seen Gryffindors employ such Slytherin tactics to get what they wanted. The plan wasn’t thought through very well – it had too many holes and loose ends – but it wasn’t a bad attempt, for amateurs.”

 

If anything, Hermione was more confused. If she’d heard it right, there had been a convoluted compliment in that explanation somewhere.

 

“So are you satisfied that am I Draco Malfoy, then?” he asked. “Or do you want to stay out here and keep asking me pointless questions while your best friend lies inches from death?”

 

“Harry will be fine,” Hermione said, trying to convince herself. “He always is.”

 

“He always _says_ he is,” Malfoy corrected her. “I would have thought you of all people would know better than to believe false words and fake appearances. But then, given what’s been going on and given the fact that you obviously have no idea about it, I would say that I had overestimated your intelligence. Either that, or you just don’t care about Potter after all.”

 

Hermione spluttered, but Malfoy turned on his heel and walked away from her, entering the house.

 

“I do care!” Hermione managed at last, but there was no-one to hear her. After a moment in which there was nothing to distract her from the image burned into her mind’s eye of Harry’s condition, she realised that she was desperately worried about him and sprinted after Malfoy.

 

The majority of the Weasleys were crowded in the doorway to the lounge room, peering in anxiously. Ron had broken off from the group to yell at Malfoy.

 

“You’re not welcome in here!”

 

The blonde’s arms were folded. “I’m not leaving, so get used to the idea. I want to see Potter.”

 

“Madam Pomfrey won’t let us in, much less you.”

 

A flash of irritation crossed Malfoy’s face. “Do you know how he is, at least?”

 

“He’s alive,” Ron said shortly. “I’m sure you’re very disappointed.”

 

“Ron,” Hermione admonished quietly, moving to stand next to him so she could place a hand on his arm. “Do you know anything else?”

 

The anger faded when he looked at her and Hermione saw that he was terrified. “Just that Madam Pomfrey said we mustn’t disturb her, because the repair of skull, and b- brain tissue,” he swallowed, “requires intense concentration and delicate spell work.”

 

“But she can save him, right? He’s going to be okay?”

 

“She said it’s too early to tell. It’s- it’s bad, Hermione. There are all sorts of things that could go wrong. She might be able to save his life, but a lot of wizards and witches who sustain a serious head injury end up in… in St Mungos for the rest of their lives.”

 

Hermione’s mouth went dry and she dropped her hand to clutch Ron’s tightly.

 

“And, and she said something about the head wound not being the only thing there is to worry about,” Ron continued, squeezing back in a gesture that both asked for and gave comfort. “She wouldn’t give us any more details than that, though. She just told us to get out of her way and be quiet.”

 

“Which is why you were yelling at me just before, of course,” Malfoy said, keeping his voice low. “You can’t obey even the simplest instructions, can you?”

 

“Well I’m sorry if I have trouble keeping my cool when my best mate is badly hurt,” Ron said acerbically, but his own voice was noticeably quieter. “You wouldn’t understand – you don’t care about anyone except yourself.”

 

“That ignorance of yours is so becoming,” Malfoy sniped. “Keep talking; I’m sure with your intellect you’ll manage to come up with something even more stupid to say.”

 

Before Ron could deliver an angry retort, the familiar voice of Hogwarts’ resident Healer announced, “Okay, everyone, Mr Potter is out of the woods.”

 

Cries of relief and elation greeted this news. Hermione gently bumped her shoulder into Ron so they could share a smile before releasing his hand somewhat self-consciously.

 

The rest of the Weasleys parted to let Madam Pomfrey through the doorway and Hermione saw that the usually robust woman looked very tired. She pulled up a chair for her, which the Healer sank into gratefully.

 

“Can we go in and see him now?” Ginny asked, her hopeful expression reflected on other faces in the room.

 

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “He’s not going to be awake for a while,” she told them.

 

“You can’t have finished healing him yet,” Malfoy spoke up, a frown creasing his forehead. “Why did you stop?”

 

Everyone looked at him as someone who seemed to know more about what was happening than they did. Ron’s face had morphed into a mixture of anger and suspicion again.

 

“You are quite right, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey said. “The head injury was the most serious issue and I have managed to deal with it effectively, I think, but he is not well again by any stretch of the imagination. I had to stop prematurely – the damage is too extensive to heal in one sitting.”

 

“Why?” asked Ginny in alarm. “You can fix anything, can’t you?”

 

“Not everything, dear,” Madam Pomfrey said sadly.

 

“But-”

 

“In Mr Potter’s case,” she continued quickly, “I do have the ability to heal his current afflictions. But right now it is more a question of power.” She sighed wearily. “Healing the head wound took a lot out of us.”

 

“Well, I could take over from you,” Mrs Weasley volunteered. “After raising seven children, I’ve had a lot of experience…”

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, Molly. Especially with those mischief-loving twins of yours. However, magical healing draws on the power of the injured person as much as the Healer. Mr Potter’s core is too exhausted to withstand another session of healing right now. In fact, given his condition and that he was fighting so hard to keep himself alive until I got here, I’m surprised I was able to heal as much as I did. I would have thought it would drain him a lot sooner, but it was almost as though he’d received a power boost from somewhere…”

 

Hermione shot a glance at Malfoy.

 

“It helped, then,” he said quietly. “Good.”

 

Eyebrows rose all around the room, save Hermione’s – she’d already experienced the shock of this seemingly incongruous news a few minutes ago.

 

“It was you, Mr Malfoy?” Madam Pomfrey asked. “I thought I recognised the magical signature from somewhere, but I couldn’t identify it. Does this mean you are able to provide us with more information about what transpired to bring Mr Potter to this condition? From the brief diagnostic charm I cast, I have my suspicions…” Her eyes darkened noticeably. “But I’d hate to jump to the wrong conclusion.”

 

They all waited expectantly for his explanation. Hermione’s best guess would have been that Death Eaters had attacked again, but then why wouldn’t Malfoy have just said so in the beginning?

 

“This isn’t going to be easy for you all to hear,” Malfoy said pre-emptively. “Maybe you should all sit down, or something.”

 

No one moved and Ron glared fiercely at him for daring to waste time.

 

“Right. What the hell do I care anyway? Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

“Who. Hurt. Harry?” Ron demanded, enunciating every word so they each carried a clear warning about how he would react if Malfoy didn’t answer immediately.

 

Malfoy drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He looked to be bracing himself.

 

“It was his uncle.”

 

ooOOoo


	15. Sanctuary

 

Stunned silence.

 

“All of it?” Madam Pomfrey finally found wits enough to ask.

 

Draco shook his head. “Most. The cousin… was responsible for some of it too.” Images from – god, had it only been last night? – flashed before his mind’s eye again, causing him to shudder. He wished he could erase them from his brain, but he suspected they would follow him to his grave. He hated that the horrible memories were always so much more vivid and persistent than the good ones. “The worst of it,” he corrected, meeting the eyes of the Healer and seeing that she knew he wasn’t talking about the head injury. Draco wasn’t going to tell anyone about the rape and he suspected that Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t mention it either. It would be up to Potter to tell his friends… and Draco wouldn’t blame him if he never did.

 

“What – what are you saying?” stammered the Weasley girl (Ginny, his mind filled in, since referring to each Weasley by their last name became impractical when there were so many of them around).

 

It was at this point that Draco realised that he was surrounded completely by Gryffindors (and he couldn’t believe he’d actually come here of his own volition) who would need everything spelled out for them. “I’m _saying_ that Harry Potter, your Golden Boy and supposed friend, is the Boy Who Lived to Be Abused by His Muggle Relatives.”

 

Ron sat down heavily, looking shell-shocked. Granger’s hand flew to her mouth and tears sprung to her eyes. Ginny seemed bewildered, as though she couldn’t understand what he’d just told them. Mrs Weasley’s face showed utter devastation and Mr Weasley looked furious.

 

Draco wondered who would speak first, but a minute passed without anyone saying anything. He shrugged to himself. They’d wanted him to explain, so he’d explain.

 

“It has been going on practically his entire life. Turns out that the Dursleys hate magic and so they hated Potter by extension. They thought he was a freak, so naturally he didn’t deserve to be loved, or cared for, or clothed properly, or fed. He did deserve to be punished, though. For accidents, for mistakes, for not finishing his extensive list of chores fast enough, for having nightmares, for fighting back… even for events entirely beyond his control. Not that his uncle felt like he needed an excuse. Potter’s existence was apparently offense enough. He was worked to the bone, denied food, viciously belted and beaten until bones cracked. I never saw this one myself, but Potter mentioned that he’d been locked in his bedroom for days or even weeks at a time – and he had the locks on his door and bars on his window to prove it.”

 

Breath exploded out from Ron as though he’d been punched in the gut. “They put the bars back?” he asked. “After we ripped them out the summer before second year when we came to his rescue? They actually put them back in?”

 

Draco felt anger flare within him. “So you did know. I thought you were all just stupid for not working it out, but it’s worse than that. You _knew_. You knew, and you let him go back there. They nearly killed him this time, for god’s sake, how could you-”

 

“We didn’t know!” Granger said, her voice squeaking with emotion. “We had no idea it was that bad!”

 

Draco glared at her. “So you did know something.”

 

She at least had the decency to look ashamed. “Well… I guess there were a few hints, here and there, that something wasn’t quite right with his home life.”

 

“Like how he never received any letters from his family,” Ron spoke up, his face twisted in self-recrimination. “And how he wouldn’t go home for term holidays, and the best Christmas present he ever got from them was a pair of old socks.”

 

“He asked us to send him food packages one summer,” Mrs Weasley said. “And he’s always so much thinner after he’s been at home for a few weeks.”

 

“The things he said sometimes…” Ron trailed.

 

“He, he told us,” Granger admitted, “that his relatives didn’t like him that much. That they’d be… disappointed that he hadn’t managed to get himself killed during our first year.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought he was joking. “

 

“Well, I can confirm for you, Granger, that they would have been more than happy to see him dead at someone else’s hands,” Draco said sharply. “It would have made their lives so much easier; saved them from having to do him in themselves.”

 

“But we warned them,” said Mr Weasley. “Harry was going to send us letters every three days and he was supposed to tell us if anything was wrong.”

 

Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the stupidity of Gryffindors. “And it never occurred to you, I suppose, that threatening the uncle would just make him angry. Or that he could check Potter’s letters before he sent them and hurt him more if he ever tried to say anything bad about them.”

 

“But, if that were the case, why didn’t Harry just run away, like he did the summer before third year?” asked Mrs Weasley.

 

“He _ran away_?” Draco blurted incredulously. “And you still didn’t realise how bad things were?”

 

Mrs Weasley shifted uncomfortably. “All families have difficulties sometimes. I thought they’d had an argument or something and he just needed some space…”

 

“Yeah, that or Potter was running for his life,” Draco said. “But he couldn’t do that this time, because Dumbledore told him that it wasn’t safe for us to leave. Death Eaters were watching the house.”

 

“He could have come here,” Ginny suggested. “We’d have taken him in; he had to have known that. We always do.”

 

Draco shook his head. “The Headmaster said the wards around this house aren’t powerful enough to stand up against a determined attack from the Dark Lord and his forces. Potter didn’t want to risk your lives. In fact, when he wakes up he’s probably going to kill me for bringing him here.”

 

Oh yes, Draco realised as he thought about it properly for the first time, Potter was going to be furious. He had told Draco that he wasn’t allowed to interfere, that they couldn’t leave 4 Privet Drive or let the blood wards fall, that they couldn’t come to the Weasleys’ house because it would endanger all of them and that he wasn’t allowed to tell anyone what he knew about the abuse. In the course of a few short hours, he had broken all of those rules.

 

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Granger said fiercely, stepping forward and – by the time Draco realised what she intended to do it was too late to stop her – encircling him in a tight hug. He stiffened, a split-second away from ignoring his magical fatigue to hex her off, but she let go quickly enough that he didn’t have to resort to such drastic measures.

 

Ron’s eyes were boggling. “Hermione!” He sounded scandalised. “He’s the enemy!”

 

Granger refused to look embarrassed or repentant. “He saved Harry’s life,” she told Ron, and then turned back to him. “Thank you, Draco.”

 

Draco shifted uncomfortably. Old prejudices made him want to insult her by saying he would now need a shower because the filthy mudblood had touched him. But by the same logic that had led him to realise that the pureblood Death Eaters were no better than the Muggle Dursleys, he was forced to acknowledge that the bushy-haired know-it-all Muggle-born standing in front of him was the smartest and most talented witch in their year, surpassing purebloods and half-bloods alike. Besides, it was a strange feeling to have someone express gratitude for something he’d done – a nice feeling. So he didn’t insult her.

 

“Someone had to do it,” he said instead. He didn’t know how much of his reputation remained, but he wanted to hold onto at least some of it and saying something like ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘it was the least I could do’ was _not_ a response conducive to this aim.

 

Granger nodded solemnly, though, as if he’d said something profound. “Harry is always so busy trying to save everyone else that he forgets sometimes he needs saving, too.”

 

Draco grunted. “That’s probably because his uncle has spent fifteen years trying to drill it into his head that his life is worthless.”

 

Tears welled up in Granger’s eyes again. “That’s horrible,” she whispered.

 

“He doesn’t believe it though, right?” Ginny asked.

 

“Well how would you feel, if you were him?” Draco countered. “His parents are dead and the only family he has left hates him, considers him a waste of space, a burden, a freak.”

 

“But _we_ love him,” she said. “He knows we love him.”

 

“Have you ever told him that?”

 

She flushed and her red cheeks clashed horribly with her hair. “Not… not in so many words.”

 

“So how is he supposed to know?” Draco reasoned. “He’s been abused and neglected throughout his entire childhood. His relatives never loved him – they told him he didn’t deserve to be loved. He doesn’t expect it from anyone, because he thinks that his parents are the only people who could have ever truly loved him and he doesn’t even remember what that felt like.”

 

Now Ginny was all teary-eyed, and – oh no, her mother as well, and – great, Madam Pomfrey too. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

 

“Oh, the poor child,” Mrs Weasley exhaled, bringing a handkerchief up to dab at her eyes.

 

“We’ve – we’ve failed him so badly,” Granger said brokenly.

 

“But we’ll make it up to him,” Ginny declared. “Won’t we?” Her gaze swept the people around the room and they all looked both terribly sad and determined to make amends.

 

“So you’ll let him stay here for the rest of the summer?” Draco felt compelled to ask. Part of him wanted to say ‘us’ instead of ‘him’, but he didn’t want the Weasleys’ dislike for all things Malfoy to jeopardise Potter’s chances.

 

“Of course!” Ginny and Ron answered immediately, echoed by their parents.

 

Draco felt relieved, but he wasn’t entirely sure it would hold. Gryffindors had a tendency not to think things through thoroughly and then regret their decisions later. “You understand what that means, don’t you? Potter is a target. As soon as the Death Eaters realise where he’s gone, they’ll come here to kill him – and anyone who gets in their way. Your family won’t be safe anymore.”

 

The Weasley children looked offended, as though he should know that they didn’t care about the risk. The adults, however, seemed to be pondering his words more seriously. He supposed that they understood the reality of death and loss more than their children did – they had, after all, lived through the first wizarding war and it wouldn’t have been without causalities in the form of their friends and family. As parents, too, they had to fear for the lives of their children, just as Draco’s mother had for him. And they had to know that they weren’t invincible.

 

“Right now, nothing is more important to us than protecting our family,” Mrs Weasley said at last. Draco felt a flash of disappointment, but he understood; in these troubled times, people had to look out for their own. “And Harry is a part of our family,” Mrs Weasley continued more strongly. “We would never turn him away. We will do our utmost to protect him and care for him, just as we would any of our own children. No matter the risk.”

 

Mr Weasley nodded his firm agreement and squeezed his wife’s hand. Their two youngest ran over to hug them.

 

 _Good,_ Draco thought, smiling wearily. _They are just what Potter needs – a real, healthy, loving family. And I think they’d be willing to die for him if they had to. He’ll be okay here._

 

Now all Draco had to do was think of somewhere safe he himself could go until school started up again…

 

“And Draco, dear,” Mrs Weasley added, sharing a look with her husband, “you’re welcome to stay here too, for the rest of the summer. I know it’s nothing like what you’re used to and we haven’t much room, but you saved Harry’s life and it’s the least we could do. So if you want…”

 

Draco looked at them. The adults seemed earnest, while their children appeared a little unhappy but resigned, not putting up any arguments.

 

He really had nowhere else to go.

 

“Yes, please,” he said quietly. “Thankyou…”

 

As the tension of uncertainty slipped away, the fatigue overwhelmed him and he slid to the floor, falling asleep almost instantly.

 

ooOOoo

 

When Draco next woke, the house was oddly quiet. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible for a house with so many children in it to ever achieve this level of stillness – although now that he was more rested he realised that he hadn’t seen the fireworks twins or the pompous prefect or the dragon handler around earlier, which might have helped to reduce the noise.

 

Regaining consciousness more fully, Draco noticed that he was still in the kitchen but a mattress and pillow had been conjured underneath him and a blanket had been laid over the top. The blanket was a garish mixture of red and gold colours. Draco suspected that the choice could be attributed to an irritated Ronald Weasley looking for some form of revenge that wouldn’t get him in trouble with his parents.

 

Draco gingerly pulled it off, hoping that he wasn’t contaminated… but how was he supposed to remain uncontaminated when he was going to be surrounded completely by Gryffindors for the next month? This had been a terrible idea.

 

In-bred propriety forced him to, in spite of his distaste, fold the blanket neatly at the foot of the mattress before he carefully stood up. No dizziness or intense fatigue assaulted him this time, which was a welcome change. He’d been staggering around like a useless drunk before and he’d collapsed twice – once into Granger’s arms and the second time he’d actually fallen unconscious. Plus his hair had been a mess and he was covered in Potter’s blood… or, more accurately, those two counts were still both true, but at least no one was currently around to see him in such a state. If he hadn’t been so exhausted earlier, he might have been mortified that the Weasleys had seen him – a respectable pureblood wizard – looking so unkempt. Except, if Granger’s reaction was anything to go by, _not_ caring about his appearance during an emergency like this was actually more impressive to them.

 

Nonetheless, he felt uncomfortable looking less than his best, so he pulled out his and Potter’s trunks from his pocket, using _Finite_ to cancel the shrinking spells. A quick glance around the room confirmed that no one was around and provided the reason, too; the kitchen window showed pitch blackness outside. It had to be the middle of the night.

 

After setting his and Potter’s wands safely on the kitchen table, Draco quickly stripped out of the soiled clothes, cast a cleaning charm over himself since he didn’t know where the shower was in this house and pulled on a set of black robes. In a strange moment of consideration, he chose an older set that were just slightly more worn so he wouldn’t emphasise the Weasley’s second-hand robes too much. It felt good to be wearing normal clothes again – donning Muggle-appropriate clothing each morning for the past month had never felt right to him.

 

After combing back his hair to perfection, Draco finally felt presentable. He couldn’t relax, though, until he _Incindio-_ ed the pile of blood-stained clothes, removing them from existence and hopefully the memory of how they’d come to be in that condition from his mind. Unfortunately, he had no such luck with the latter.

 

“You’re not supposed to do magic outside of school, you know.”

 

Draco spun to see that Madam Pomfrey had entered the room, looking less tired than she had earlier – presumably she’d had the chance to get some rest, too. Her words were reproving, but since her tone and expression weren’t Draco figured she wasn’t going to get him in trouble for the spell. Besides, compared with the magic he’d performed back at Privet Drive this was nothing.

 

He shrugged. “No amount of scrubbing was going to get them clean. You should do the same to Potter’s clothes, come to think of it.”

 

The Healer smiled sheepishly. “I already did, actually.” The faint humour faded. “Not that they really counted as clothes in the first place.”

 

Draco nodded his agreement. That was the reason that he hadn’t packed any of the other tatty hand-me-downs for Potter. Ron could probably lend Potter some clothes until he had a chance to go shopping, or Draco could if necessary.

 

“So how’s he doing?” Draco asked, glancing towards the lounge room.

 

“A bit better. His core is recharging slower than I’d hoped, but I think enough time has passed for me to try to do some more healing now. And for this part… I don’t think Mr Potter would want an audience.”

 

Draco realised what she was talking about. “You can deal with that sort of, uh, injury, then?”

 

“The physical aspect, yes,” she told him. “But psychologically…” she shook her head sadly. “That part is up to him, I’m afraid. Dare I ask what happened?”

 

“I was stupid enough to let him out of my sight yesterday,” Draco said, still furious with himself for leaving Potter like that. He should have known something bad would happen, he should have been there to stop it, he should have forced Potter to leave rather than waiting for Mr Dursley to practically murder him before doing something. “I came back to find him unconscious and bleeding on the floor. From things he said later, I gathered that he had been attacked by his cousin. Potter put up a fight at first, but his cousin threatened to hurt – er, someone close to him – and Potter… he stopped struggling. But he never stood a chance anyway – his cousin is about four times bigger than he is and Potter had spent the past few weeks being starved and worked to exhaustion. It wasn’t his fault.”

 

“Of course it wasn’t,” the Healer said softly. “It never is.”

 

Draco nodded. “I told him that. I’m not sure he believed me, though. He was… he was very… uh… He was kind of a mixture, really. In shock, at first. Defensive, panicked, ashamed, angry, cold, emotionless… And at one point his eyes just looked – dead. Like he’d given up.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It was scary. I’ve never seen anyone look like that. And I never thought I would ever see _Potter_ , of all people, look like that. I mean… he’s _Harry Potter._ You know?”

 

“Maybe that’s why no one realised what was going on,” Madam Pomfrey suggested. “But it’s no excuse. The signs were all there; we should have seen it, celebrity or no. Maybe then we could have stopped this from going so far.”

 

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. Even though he had never been close to Potter during their school years and so could hardly have been expected to notice that something was wrong with the Boy Hero’s home life then, he accepted his share of the blame for taking so long to realise the truth while he was actually living in that house with the abuse happening right under his nose. There was a lot of guilt to go around. “But what’s done is done. We can’t change what has already happened. All we can do now is help him to recover… and that starts with healing his injuries. Is there any way I can help you with that?”

 

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you know any healing spells?”

 

“A few. Not many, and the ones I do know are fairly basic,” Draco admitted. “But I’ve rested… So I have strength to lend, if Potter could use it.”

 

She smiled. “You are a wonder, child. A month ago, I wouldn’t have expected you to lift a hand to help anyone. And now here you are, having already risked your life to help Mr Potter, now continuing to render assistance even though you could pass on the task to others.”

 

He shifted self-consciously. “Everyone else is asleep,” he pointed out. “Otherwise I would gladly leave them to it.”

 

The look in her eyes was far too knowing, in Draco’s opinion, but she didn’t challenge his statement. “Well, Mr Malfoy, your help would be greatly appreciated.”

 

She moved into the lounge room, beckoning him to follow her.

 

At any other time, Draco might have noticed the shabby furniture, the worn and stained carpet, the peeling wallpaper, the disorganised shelves of books, the general mess and disorder of the room. But right now he only had eyes for the small figure laid out on the couch.

 

Potter was wearing a thin hospital gown that did nothing to hide the emaciation of his body. Stick-like arms and legs were clearly visible and the skin still showed evidence of rough scrubbing. Potter’s left ankle was swollen and discoloured. But what Draco noticed the most was that Potter’s head was no longer covered in blood. He stepped closer to gently brush his fingers over Potter’s forehead and through his hair, getting a tactile confirmation that the devastating injury had been healed.

 

“See?” he said quietly to the unconscious boy. “I told you that you were going to make it. Thanks for not proving me wrong.”

 

He became aware, then, that Madam Pomfrey was watching him and he swiftly pulled his hand away, coughing to disguise his embarrassment. He blamed the highly stressful nature of the past few weeks for compromising his sanity and allowing this show of sentimentality to occur.

 

“So, uh…” He didn’t actually know where to begin, but she seemed to understand what he meant anyway.

 

“Lift him off the couch for a moment, if you would, Mr Malfoy.”

 

He did so, as carefully as he could, and a quick spell from Madam Pomfrey transfigured the couch into an Infirmary-style hospital bed. Draco set Potter down again as she circled around the bed to stand opposite him.

 

“Roll him onto his side so he is facing you,” she instructed. “Good. Now, Miss Granger gave me a brief description of what you did to transfer some of your power to Mr Potter. I understand you somehow linked your magic to his?”

 

Draco nodded, wincing slightly as he remembered the unexpected pain it had caused him. Hopefully this time it wouldn’t be as bad because he would be ready for it.

 

“Did you go in blind, or are you able to sense his core and the reservoir of energy that surrounds it?”

 

“Ah… I can sort of ‘see’ it, but not with my eyes…” It was difficult to explain.

 

A beat of surprise. Then, “That is a rare gift, Mr Malfoy. Can you tell me how Mr Potter’s core looks at the moment?”

 

Draco extended his hand again, placing it lightly against Potter’s chest, then closed his eyes and concentrated.

 

He wasn’t in such a rush this time around, so he was able to examine what he could see more carefully. The pulsing orb of golden light seemed brighter and stronger than it had yesterday. A myriad of other colours swirled around it, extending small threads out through the rest of Potter’s body. Those had been largely absent earlier, as they had a tendency to retreat to the core when the magic was being funnelled to one specific purpose – keeping a wizard alive, for example. The fact that they had returned was promising, but the ‘reservoir’ of energy, as Madam Pomfrey had called it, which manifested itself to his Sight as a well of white light that the orb dipped in and out of to feed the threads of magic, was still quite low compared to normal levels.

 

“Better,” he told the Healer, ending the contact and blinking back into normal vision. “But if he were conscious right now, I doubt he’d be able to do much more than levitate one of Professor Flitwick’s feathers for a few seconds.”

 

She sighed in disappointment. “Okay. That reservoir is refilled naturally through sleeping and eating, neither of which – from what you’ve said – he has been getting much of recently.”

 

Draco nodded. “And there have been a few occasions these holidays where he’s been forced to use magic, even with his levels so low. Without his wand to channel it properly, too, at times.”

 

She grimaced. “That’s very dangerous.”

 

Draco tried not to think about how his own idiocy had led to both Potter’s burst of accidental magic after the letter incident and the fierce magical battle that Potter had been dragged into to save his life. “Yeah. Add to that the constant strain his body was under to keep him alive and functional…”

 

She shook her head. “No wonder his magic is struggling to recharge itself.”

 

“Well that’s where I come in, isn’t it?” Draco said.

 

“Just so. Now, I’m not entirely sure how what you do works, not having that particular gift myself, but I would like you to keep a careful watch on Mr Potter’s energy levels and contribute some of your own whenever you feel it is necessary. If at any point you think we need to stop – either for your own sake or Mr Potter’s – tell me immediately. I will cease as soon as it is safe to do so. Understood?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“When you are ready, then, Mr Malfoy.”

 

Draco took a deep breath, released it slowly and laid his hand against Potter’s chest. He closed his eyes again, seeking out the core of Potter’s magic. Once he had it clearly in Sight, he prepared a thin tube extending from his own well of power to be ready to touch it to Potter’s when needed. Then he braced himself. “Okay.”

 

He heard Madam Pomfrey begin her first spell and saw with interest how her magic entered into his Sight as delicate waves of blue. They wove through Potter’s body, gathering in a web cluster at an area that he dimly perceived to be a mass of angry red – pain, he thought, and he didn’t want to think any deeper about its source. Now that he was aware of this new aspect of his vision, he could see how there were patches all throughout Potter’s body, denser in some areas than others. Potter’s head, at least, seemed to be clear of the pain – which was remarkable given the severity of the wound and a tribute to Madam Pomfrey’s ability – but in its place was a black, tumultuous storm. Curious, he tried to probe at it, but a whip-like flash of green snapped out from the centre and his magic recoiled as though stung.

 

At that moment Potter’s core flared, then stuttered. Draco quickly refocused his attention and saw that the blue waves were brushing against a few of Potter’s threads, drawing power that the well was struggling to provide. He extended his tube, coaxing some of his own power to flow through into Potter.

 

Threads from the core seemed to sense this second intrusion and recognised it for what it was faster this time – they stretched out eagerly and tried to ensnare him so they could rip even more power from his stores.

 

 _Hey, easy there Potter, not so fast,_ Draco thought at the unconscious boy, making the outside of his tube more slippery so that the threads couldn’t get a firm grip. _Be gentle here and this will work a little easier for the both of us. Slowly, slowly. There you go, just a bit at a time._ Relieved that the procedure wasn’t hurting him nearly as much as the last time, Draco continued to let his power flow through at a thin, steady rate, keeping pace with Madam Pomfrey’s efforts. For a time, Potter’s magic still flared and stuttered uncertainly, but it gradually settled.

 

Draco occasionally checked on the Healer’s progress and was gratified to See how the blue gradually diffused into the red, dissipating the pain. He could imagine that, physically, Potter’s body was knitting back together, but he was glad that he wasn’t watching it. Observing Granger heal his arm had been nauseating enough.

 

The largest mass of red finally vanished altogether and he dimly heard Madam Pomfrey ask if he wanted to stop. It was an effort to shake his head, immersed as he was, but he still had plenty of power to give and wanted Potter to get better as soon as possible.

 

He heard the Healer murmur her assent and the waves of blue moved outward, touching and dissolving the pain of each injured area as they passed. Draco could feel Potter relaxing under his hand and the orb of golden light began to relax, too, returning to a more natural, gentle pulsing that was akin to a magical heartbeat.

 

Draco himself was tiring, but he could See that Madam Pomfrey was nearly finished and resolved to hold on a little longer.

 

_Come on Potter, you can do it, almost there, you’re going to be fine…_

The mess of red located in Potter’s ankle finally surrendered to the insistent blue and dispersed, leaving only faint ghosts of red behind throughout Potter’s body.

 

The waves of magic from Madam Pomfrey faltered, then, and quickly withdrew. She had reached the end of her strength.

 

Draco strained to dribble just a little more power into Potter’s well to keep him going. His chest began to ache in a way that let him know he was taking it too far, so he pulled the tube of magic back into himself through his hand, then broke the contact with a gasp and collapsed to his knees.

 

“Mr Malfoy… are you… alright?” a wearied Madam Pomfrey asked.

 

Draco sucked in a few deep breaths, blowing them out unsteadily, trying to keep himself from toppling over. He couldn’t answer her yet, but he thought he was okay. Just thoroughly exhausted. Taking it slower apparently meant that it hurt less, but made the transfer no less taxing for him.

 

He felt something pushed into his hand and opened bleary eyes to see that it was chocolate.

 

“Always handy to have some chocolate around,” the Healer told him. “Gives you a bit of a boost.”

 

He nibbled at it and felt his chest fill with a comfortable warmth. “Mm,” he said. “I haven’t eaten anything since dinner yesterday… and I threw all of that back up. No offense to… Potter’s cooking. He’s actually quite a good cook, you know… Damn Muggles.” He ate more of the chocolate.

 

“Foolish boy, doing something like this on an empty stomach! What were you thinking? Here-” she pulled a vial from one of her many pockets and handed it to him. “Drink that.”

 

He swallowed it obediently and was pleasantly surprised to notice that it tasted like warm and creamy tomato soup. The hunger pangs he hadn’t even been consciously aware of faded to a comfortable satiety.

 

“Equivalent of a day’s worth of meals,” she informed him. “Unfortunately, Mr Potter will require far more drastic nutritive potions to combat his severe malnourishment and they taste considerably worse.”

 

“He’ll love that,” Draco smiled, knowing it would be exactly the opposite.

 

“Oh, definitely,” she said dryly. “That, however, is a problem for another day.”

 

Draco climbed to his feet, wobbling slightly, then looked down at Potter. “Is he going to wake up soon?”

 

“It’s up to him, now. He still needs a lot of rest. I would think he will sleep for a few hours yet, but it will be a more comfortable sleep for him now. He’ll wake when he’s ready.”

 

Potter did look much better. He seemed to be resting peacefully; his breathing was slow and deep, and no stress lines were evident around his eyes to indicate that he was worried or hurting. He was still dramatically thin, but free from any injuries for now, and at the moment it was good enough.

 

“Off to bed with you now, young man. You’ve done yourself proud and you deserve a break.”

 

Draco tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn. “O-okay… You should sleep, too, though… You did a great job, Madam Pomfrey.”

 

She smiled softly and squeezed his shoulder. “It was a team effort. Goodnight, Draco.”

 

“Night...” he mumbled, stumbling back to his mattress in the kitchen and not even caring that he was pulling a Gryffindor-coloured blanket over himself.

 

Within moments, he was once again fast asleep.

 

ooOOoo


	16. Confrontations

 

“… oh… looks so much better…”

 

“…still scarily thin, though… skin and bones…”

 

“…least the skin isn’t covered… cuts and bruises…”

 

“…still can’t believe we didn’t… what was happening… so _stupid_ …”

 

“…can’t believe he didn’t tell us…”

 

“…Harry we’re talking about here… course… didn’t tell us…”

 

“…going to wake up soon…?”

 

“…Harry… hey, Harry, wake up…”

 

“...what are you all doing in here?... did not give you permission… Mr Potter needs to rest…”

 

“…just worried about him…our friend, and you weren’t around to ask…”

 

…telling you now, Miss Weasley… goes for you too, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger… you can visit him later, maybe… one at a time…”

 

“…but…”

 

“…don’t want to overwhelm him…one at a time… if he feels up to it…”

 

“…but when is he going to wake up…?”

 

“...don’t know… now if you would please… needs to rest…”

 

“…okay…”

 

“…you will tell us when he wakes…?”

 

“...of course… off with you now…”

 

“…wake up soon, mate… miss you ‘round here…”

 

A hand landed on his shoulder.

 

The physical contact did what the voices could not, jerking Harry out of the twilight zone of semi-conscious thought.

 

He yelped and scrambled backwards, but there was no headboard to prevent him from toppling off the edge and he landed on his back with a grunt.

 

“Harry!”

 

“ _Harry!_ ”

 

“HARRY!”

 

“Mr Potter!”

 

The voices sounded familiar, but the panic wouldn’t abate; he continued to scuttle as far away as he could, hoping that his back would hit a wall soon so he couldn’t be surrounded on all sides. Not that the wall had helped last time – Dudley didn’t need a gang anymore, he just needed one good threat and Harry would fold, because he was weak and pathetic and disgusting…

 

He blinked frantically, but he could barely see, he didn’t know where his glasses were, all he knew was that there were too many blurred figures advancing towards him and he couldn’t get away fast enough…

 

He started babbling. He didn’t want to but he couldn’t help it; he could remember pain, dreadful pain, the likes of which he had never felt before, his brain imploding and exploding at the same time, the certainty that this time it would finally kill him and if by some evil twist of fate he had somehow survived he didn’t ever, ever want to feel that pain again, and it wasn’t even like he had any dignity to preserve anymore because Dudley had taken even that from him, so there was nothing to stop him begging, pleading… “Oh god, please, please don’t hurt me, not again, please, I can’t, I can’t take it anymore, I can’t, god please make it stop, I just want it to end, why didn’t you let it kill me, I can’t go through that again, please don’t hit me anymore, I’ll be good I promise, just please don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, not again, I can’t…”

 

A hand touched his arm, trying to pull him closer to the hand’s owner and he wailed, “Noo… please, god not that again, anything but that, please…”

 

“Harry – Harry, it’s just me, I’m not going to hurt you…”

 

He curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from Dudley’s rough, groping, pinching fingers, that would wrap around him and squeeze until he couldn’t even scream if he had wanted to, and god he had wanted to, it hurt so much, and it was so degrading, so humiliating, he would take death by head bashing any day over going through this again, but Dudley wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t stop touching him, and any second he would force Harry onto his knees and-

 

“Please…” he wailed again. “Please don’t… _please_ …”

 

Mercifully the hand withdrew, and he could have sobbed with relief except that sobbing would only get him into trouble, because he wasn’t allowed to cry, it was against the rules, and so the tears didn’t come.

 

“Harry, it’s just us. We won’t hurt you – we’d _never_ hurt you. It’s okay, just calm down…”

 

“He can’t see. He doesn’t have his glasses, and I think he’s too hysterical to recognise our voices. Harry, it’s Hermione. And Ginny, and Ron. You’re all right, you’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

 

Reason tried to hammer through the terror. Girls’ voices. Small, feminine hand. Didn’t sound like Aunt Petunia. Hermione and Ginny, and he had heard Ron’s voice before too. And Madam Pomfrey’s. Were they back at Hogwarts? He didn’t remember the summer ending, or travelling on the Hogwart’s Express… The last thing he remembered was…

 

_“I think we’ve got another one here, Dad, who needs to be taught a lesson,” Dudley said._

_“Get your filthy hands off me,” Malfoy ordered in that voice of his that was supposed to be commanding to hide his fear. He tried to jerk away, but Harry knew from personal experience how hard it was to break free once Dudley’s hands were gripped tightly around your wrists. Malfoy struggled harder, twisting and wriggling and straining, but the Dudley just grinned and pulled him closer, whispering something intimate into his ear that made Malfoy turn a sickly green. Harry could imagine; he could remember; his own stomach lurched in empathy._

_Uncle Vernon moved away from Harry, but it was hardly a good thing because now he was approaching Malfoy and Harry was too terrified to move._

_“I’ve obviously held out too long in teaching you your place in this household,” Uncle Vernon growled. “I’ve trained the boy well enough; he knows not to ask questions, or complain, or talk back, or fight. And once I’m done with you, you will be just as weak, just as submissive…”_

_Harry was ashamed, mortified, but he knew it was true; he had allowed himself to become this wreck of a human being, this pathetic orphan boy who was beaten down and weak and submissive. He didn’t want it to happen to Malfoy, though. His spirit was so indomitable; Uncle Vernon shouldn’t be allowed to break him, too._

_“Don’t bet on it,” Malfoy spat, and Harry was cheering him on inside but he still couldn’t move, couldn’t speak._

_“You’ll be singing a different song soon, freak,” Mr Dursley promised darkly, clenching one of his huge hands into a fist. He drew it back, aiming for Malfoy’s stomach-_

_Harry snapped. Wizards were_ not _freaks; Malfoy had said so. Uncle Vernon had no right, no right to hurt him, and now it was up to Harry to protect him because that is what Harry did. He had a ‘saving-people thing’ and Malfoy said if he abandoned it then he wouldn’t be himself anymore._

_So Harry launched himself at his uncle, fighting back for the first time in two years, and this time he had a greater purpose-_

_But no greater strength. Within seconds Uncle Vernon got the upper hand… And then the pain started._

_The last thing Harry saw was Malfoy’s face, terror-stricken and desperately upset as he struggled to break free from Dudley with no more success than earlier. So helpless. So vulnerable. And Harry couldn’t save him._

_He’d failed._

_The world detonated into darkness._

 

“Malfoy!” Harry gasped.

 

“No… Ginny, Hermione and Ron.”

 

“ _Malfoy!_ ”

 

He could see a blur of bushy brown hair, a blur of short red hair, a blur of long red hair. No platinum blonde. Where was Malfoy? Was he hurt? Was he dead? Had Uncle Vernon killed him?

 

“Malfoy.” Coherence was failing him, he couldn’t ask, he didn’t even know if he wanted to know the truth, to hear how he had failed so utterly to protect the boy who had done so much for him this summer.

 

“Harry, it’s us!” Ginny’s voice, not Malfoy’s. “We were so worried about you-” Harry was worried about Malfoy “-we thought that maybe this time we were going to lose you for good-” Was Malfoy gone for good? Had he died and left him, just like so many others had? “-but you’re alive-” He didn’t care, he shouldn’t be, not if he’d failed to save Malfoy’s life “-you’re okay-” No, he wasn’t, he needed to know what had happened to Malfoy “-won’t you please just talk to us and tell us you’re okay?”

 

“MALFOY!” Harry bellowed.

 

“Alright, alright, I’m up already, there’s no need to scream like a bansh- What the hell is going on in here?”

 

A blur of blonde entered his line of sight. Platinum blonde. Hovering at head height, which meant that Malfoy was standing, moving, walking. Alive. Not broken or bleeding. Alive. Not dead. _Alive_.

 

“Malfoy,” Harry breathed, and it was such a relief, even though he didn’t know how it was possible.

 

“The one and only,” Malfoy said brightly, then corrected, “Well, the one and only _Draco_ Malfoy, anyway. I imagine the beautiful witches of Britain wish there were more of me to go around, though.” The tinge of humour faded from his voice. “What’s the matter, Potter?”

 

“Why was he calling for _you_?” Ron’s voice asked indignantly. “ _We’re_ his friends. You’re a Slytherin!”

 

“He was going ballistic – did you hurt him? Did you lie to us?” Ginny’s voice, angry.

 

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Hermione.

 

“What’s wrong, Potter?” Malfoy asked again, calm and soothing, ignoring the others as he slowly came closer.

 

“He spaced out before and he hasn’t been able to say two logical words since,” Ginny told him, and Harry’s quiet “I- I thought- I thought you were dead, or hurt-” was nearly drowned out. But Malfoy heard him.

 

“I’m fine,” Malfoy assured him. “Though I haven’t been able to have my beauty sleep this morning, so I might not be looking quite as stunningly handsome as usual.”

 

“But- I saw- Uncle Vernon and D-Dudley, they were going to – to hurt you. I couldn’t stop them. I tried, but I couldn’t-”

 

“It’s okay, Potter. I took a page out of your book and beat them off with a healthy blast of accidental magic. They didn’t land so much as a single blow. I’m fine… and so are you, now. Madam Pomfrey did excellent work.”

 

“S-so we’re at Hogwarts? School’s started again already?”

 

“…No, what makes you think- oh, for Merlin’s sake, where are his glasses?”

 

“He wasn’t wearing them when you brought him here. You must have left them behind.”

 

“And do any of you actually possess any magical abilities, or do you just enjoy waving sticks around?”

 

“It’s the holidays, we’re not supposed to-”

 

“ _Creo Spectaculum_ ,” Malfoy said impatiently and a moment later he was passing Harry what felt like a pair of glasses. He slid them on and had a brief moment of satisfaction when he could finally see clearly through glasses that were whole and unbroken. He was able to confirm, too, that Malfoy did indeed appear to be unharmed which had the potential to spark the tiniest feeling of joy inside him.

 

But then he took in the rest of his surroundings and realised where he was.

 

The Burrow. He was in the lounge room of the Burrow. And Hermione had just said to Malfoy ‘when you brought him here’.

 

Malfoy had brought him here. To the Burrow. To the Weasleys.

 

The panic and relief forgotten in a flood of anger, Harry stood up so that he was on level with the others in the room, pinning Malfoy with a glare. “What,” he said, very slowly and deliberately, “the _hell_ are we doing here, Malfoy?”

 

“Oh, here we go,” the blonde muttered.

 

“I told you. _I told you_ that we couldn’t leave. I told you that I wasn’t prepared to risk anyone else’s life, _especially_ not the Weasleys. So I’ll ask you again. What. The _hell_. Are we doing. _Here?”_

Malfoy refused to look intimidated. “Well, as I see it, I had two choices. I could have either let your uncle kill you, which would have invalidated the bond between you and your aunt that held up the wards, or I could save your life and get you out of there, letting the wards fall that way instead. I went with the option that didn’t have a dead body as part of the equation.”

 

“The wards fell?” Harry repeated, hoping he had heard wrong, but Malfoy didn’t take back the statement. “You let them fall – permanently?! Malfoy, they were supposed to last until I turn seventeen! I’m supposed to go back there next summer – hell, I’m supposed to be there now! I have to go back!”

 

Malfoy folded his arms. “Well, you can’t. The wards are gone, completely and irrevocably. And even if they weren’t, I would never ever let you return to that hell hole. So get over it.”

 

Harry spluttered with rage. “Get _over_ it? Get OVER it? Malfoy, my mother _died_ to give me that protection! You _knew_ how important it was and you took me away anyway, without even asking.”

 

“My deepest apologies, Potter,” Malfoy said sarcastically. “I would have asked, but fragments of your shattered skull were imbedded in your brain at the time, so you weren’t really in any condition to answer. If I hadn’t removed you from that house immediately, you would be dead right now. No need to thank me, though, of course.”

 

“ _Thank you?_ ” Harry couldn’t believe his audacity. “For endangering my friends to save someone who is pretty much a dead man walking anyway? I don’t _care_ about me; I would rather that they were safe. All you’ve done is ensured that Voldemort will get the pleasure of being the one to do me in and take out everyone else that I care about in the bargain!”

 

“Not if you kill him first.”

 

“Oh, and how am I supposed to do that, exactly? I have the ‘power to vanquish the Dark Lord’, power that he ‘knows not’, right? Except the last time that I killed him he didn’t stay dead! So what do you suggest I do? AK him every time he becomes corporeal again, a dozen, a hundred times, and hope that somehow I will miraculously be able to prevent him from getting me first?”

 

Malfoy still had the nerve to look unruffled, but Ron, Hermione and Ginny seemed to be a combination of intrigued, horrified and determinedly supportive.

 

“There’s got to be a way, mate,” Ron said. “We just have to work out what it is.”

 

“You can’t give up, Harry,” Hermione added.

 

“ _Why not?_!” Harry yelled. “‘Neither can live while the other survives’ and Voldemort seems to have the surviving thing down pat!”

 

“So do you, Harry,” Ginny tried cautiously. “The killing curse rebounded off you as a baby and you’ve made it through loads of confrontations with him since.”

 

“Only because so many crazy people have been willing to die in my place and I don’t even know why they bother! I’m nothing, no one, just some stupid, pathetic kid with a scar on my forehead! I’m already broken, I’m damaged goods, and nothing can fix me, so there’s no point in keeping me alive at anyone else’s expense! I’m not worth it.”

 

“Yes, Harry, you are,” Hermione said tearfully. “I know your relatives were horrible to you, but what they did is a reflection on them, not on you. You’re not broken, you’re not worthless, you’re not pathetic. The fact that you were being a-abused, doesn’t mean…”

 

Harry couldn’t hear her anymore. His mouth was dry, his mind reeling. _No. No. No, no, no, no…_ His eyes sought out Malfoy, but the blonde’s expression was closed, unresponsive.

 

“You told them,” Harry croaked. He had thought he’d felt betrayed before, but this – this… “You told them. I asked you not to, not to tell anyone, I didn’t want anyone to know, you know I didn’t. But you still told them. How could you do that to me?”

 

“I turned up here with you half-dead in my arms, Potter. Do you really think they would have believed that you tripped over your doorstep this time? They would have figured it out even without my help.”

 

Harry shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t. Five years. Five years I’ve managed to keep my school life and my home life separate, and then you come in and ruin everything! You had _no right_ to tell them.”

 

“We were all dunderheads, mate,” Ron said. “It shouldn’t have taken us this long – and it shouldn’t have taken _Malfoy_ of all people – but we know now and I’m glad we do. We’re your friends; we want to help you get through this. You’ve been trying to cope with it alone for too long.”

 

“Ron’s right, Harry. We’re here for you,” Hermione added. “In the fight against V-Voldemort… in everything. I know it’s not going to be easy. We all know that it could be dangerous. But some things are worth the risk.”

 

“I’m not,” Harry reiterated, frustrated that they weren’t listening to him. They didn’t seem to get it – the Harry Potter they thought they knew was almost a complete fabrication. The broken orphan boy he really was, who he had worked so hard keep hidden since starting at Hogwarts, wasn’t someone they would want to hang with, care about, believe in or follow into a war.

 

“Yes, you are,” Hermione argued and Harry wanted to scream at her, as though sheer volume could make her see sense.

 

“We – we love you, Harry,” Ginny said.

 

Harry froze. Stared at her. Saw what might have been sincerity shining in her blue eyes.

 

“No,” he replied quietly. “You love the idea of me. The Boy Who Lived, the heroic Harry Potter. But you don’t really know me; none of you do. And I don’t want you to.”

 

He pushed past her, ignoring how crushed, how devastated she looked. Upsetting her was better than getting her killed; the same went for all of them. They would be much better off if he cut ties with them now, as much as it hurt. Besides, he knew he had already lost them anyway, as soon as Malfoy had told them about how he had let himself be treated by his relatives. They had to be disgusted with him, disappointed, disillusioned… They wouldn’t want to be friends with him anymore – they were just too nice to tell it to him outright. Harry would save them the trouble.

 

“Don’t go, Harry,” Ginny whispered. “Please don’t.”

 

“Yeah, mum’ll kill us if we let you just walk out of here – especially since she hasn’t had the chance to force feed you one of her meals yet,” Ron said, trying to inject a hint of levity into the situation. Harry was going to miss that about him. He was going to miss a lot of things, but he couldn’t just think of himself in this.

 

“Sorry,” he offered feebly, unable to turn around and say it to them face-to-face. He kept walking, collecting his wand from the kitchen surface as he passed, and strode out the door without a backwards glance.

 

He heard a squabble break out behind him as the three debated what to do by yelling different ideas over the top of one another, varying from electing one person that would chase him, to all running after him together, to calling the Weasley parents down, to letting him go for now so he could cool off and change his mind…

 

He ignored that, too, stepping up his pace. He didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He just had to leave here, before Voldemort worked out where he had gone and came to kill them all.

 

He broke into a run – and then crashed solidly into something that wasn’t there.

 

“Oh no you don’t, Potter.”

 

Harry spun and saw Malfoy approaching, wand in hand and pointed in his direction.

 

Harry growled, angry that the other boy had betrayed his confidence and infuriated that he was trying to prevent him from rectifying the error, too. “I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.”

 

“Actually, Potter,” he drawled, “I think you’ll find that I _have_ stopped you. You’re not going anywhere.”

 

Harry turned away sharply and tried to push forward. It was as though a brick wall stood in his way, except it felt smooth and seamless. He followed it with his hand, searching for the opening, but it quickly became apparent that a dome-shaped shield approximately five feet in diameter thoroughly encased him.

 

He spun back to glare at Malfoy. “Let me out,” he ordered.

 

“So you can go get yourself killed after all the effort Madam Pomfrey and I put in to save your life? No, I don’t think so.”

 

“You can’t keep me trapped in here.”

 

Malfoy settled down into a cross-legged position in the grass, keeping his wand trained on Harry at all times. “Watch me.”

 

“You bloody arrogant son of a bitch.”

 

“Son of a Malfoy and a Black would be more accurate, Potter,” he said calmly. “But arrogant is probably warranted. I’m still not going to let you run off.”

 

Harry snarled and drew his wand, casting the first destructive spell that came to mind, only to have to duck to avoid it as it rebounded off the shield.

 

“Hm, that’s not terribly safe, is it?” Malfoy observed. A look of concentration passed over his face and then he smiled. “That’s better.”

 

Harry cast again, chagrined when instead of causing an explosion as he’d intended, the spell hit and was instantly absorbed by Malfoy’s shield. The same thing happened no matter what type of magic he brought to bear but he kept trying until he was trembling with fatigue.

 

“Let me out,” he repeated, somehow unable to put as much strength of command in his tone this time.

 

“No. But feel free to continue feeding the shield; it makes my job easier.”

 

Anger surged through him again – he abandoned the use of magic and started using his fists instead, pounding furiously against the unseen barrier, not caring that his hands were becoming battered and bruised as it refused to give.

 

“Ah, that’s no good either,” Malfoy mused. “Hang on… there, that’s more like it.”

 

The walls were suddenly cushioned, giving slightly under each blow to soften them but never yielding completely.

 

An inarticulate yell escaped his lips as he threw himself this way and that, slamming his shoulders into the infuriatingly stubborn barrier that declined to grant him even so little reward as pain for his efforts.

 

“Let me out, let me out, let me go, let – me – _out-!_ ” The shield rebuffed him for the hundredth time and he stumbled to his knees, panting, head hanging, fingers fisting in the grass.

 

“I hate you,” he gasped.

 

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Malfoy agreed amicably, unfazed by the glared daggers he received in response. “Oddly enough, though, I’m only looking out for your best interests here.”

 

His voice softened. “You’re on self-destruct, Potter, and I understand why. It hurts right now. It’s been hurting for a long time, but you’ve forced yourself to keep it all bottled up inside. And now that the truth is out in the open, you’re scared. You don’t know what to do, you don’t know how to deal with it and everything is all just so overwhelming. The easiest thing to do would be to run, and keep running, and never look back, hopefully leaving your past behind you where it can’t cause you any more pain.

 

“But running isn’t the answer. If you try to ignore what has happened to you, try to bury it, it will haunt your steps and eat you up inside. You need to work through it. And it certainly won’t be easy. But that’s what you have friends for. People aren’t designed to walk through life alone. Granger and Weasley might not know what they should do or say, how they should act, and they might make mistakes, do the wrong thing sometimes. But do not doubt their sincerity, or their determination. They care about you, and they will do everything that they can to support you – if you let them.

 

“And I’m here, too. I made you a promise, Potter, that I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you again. I might not have done the best job of that so far, but it won’t stop me from trying. And right now, that means making sure that you won’t hurt yourself. So I can’t let you go.”

 

Harry sagged. “I just want you all to be safe,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

 

Malfoy was silent for a few moments. “I wish I could say that you won’t. But there’s a war going on. People have already died and many more lives may be lost before the fight is over. People you know may well be among the fallen. But if these are the last days, then your friends have a right to choose for themselves how they will live them. If they want to stand by your side and fight to protect you until their last breath, then that will be their decision and you should respect it. Just as your mother would not sacrifice your life to spare her own, and just as no one could prevent Mrs Weasley from defending her children if they were in danger, your friends will not be dissuaded or denied.

 

“They love you. I know that could be a difficult concept to grasp, but think about the way you want so desperately to keep them safe and know that they feel exactly the same way about you.”

 

Harry struggled to comprehend it. The idea was just too huge to get his head around and he couldn’t make it make sense. He didn’t know why they should love him, or how they could care that much for him.

 

“You don’t have to understand it right away,” Malfoy told him gently. “You just need to recognise that they don’t want you to leave and I won’t _let_ you leave. So you’re going to stay here and I don’t want you to fight me about it anymore. Okay?”

 

Harry was too weary to fight. He nodded wordlessly.

 

“Good,” Malfoy said and he lowered his wand to take down the shield.

 

Harry didn’t move.

 

“Do you want to come back inside?”

 

He shook his head slowly. “No… not yet…”

 

“Okay,” the blonde agreed softly. With a swish of his wand and a few words that Harry didn’t quite catch, he conjured a pillow and a thick blanket underneath him. He also transfigured the hospital gown – which Harry hadn’t even consciously noticed he was wearing until that point – into a set of plain green pyjamas. “Rest here for a while then.”

 

Filled with gratitude that Malfoy wasn’t trying to drag him back to the house when he wasn’t ready, Harry chose not to contest the colour of the clothes and lay down with a sigh.

 

Malfoy sat watching him and Harry felt safe. At peace.

 

He slipped away.

 

ooOOoo


	17. Breakfast

 

“You know, Hermione,” Ron said slowly. “It may just be my imagination, but Malfoy seems different to usual, somehow.”  


They were standing together at the window of the lounge room, looking out at the field where Draco sat watching over their sleeping friend. Ginny had retreated to her bedroom.

 

Hermione sent Ron a sidelong glance loaded with amusement – he really was adorably slow on the uptake sometimes – but absorbed as he was with the scene outside he didn’t notice.

 

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

 

The frown that he always wore when trying to wrap his brain around a difficult concept at school reappeared now. “Well… on the train home from Hogwarts, Malfoy tried to ambush Harry, right? Tried to attack him?”

 

Hermione nodded, remembering the incident with a certain fondness – Draco and his two goons hadn’t come out of the conflict looking too good, which had been rather satisfying considering how much trouble they had caused the DA over the past year. “Yes, he did.”

 

“But then when someone attacked Harry for him… he saved Harry’s life,” Ron continued, sounding bewildered by his own words. “It makes no sense. They hate each other, don’t they?”

 

“I used to think so,” Hermione said. “Or at least, disliked each other immensely.”

 

“Yeah. Doesn’t look like it anymore, though, does it? I mean, Malfoy was all worried about Harry, and then when Harry woke up the first thing he wanted to know was whether or not Malfoy was alright.”

 

“They started arguing almost straight away,” Hermione pointed out, wondering what Ron would make of that.

 

His frown deepened. “I know. But I was actually inclined to side with Malfoy on that one, which is completely unnatural for me!” He shuddered.

 

“Well, he was right,” Hermione said, hoping that Ron wouldn’t feel so bad about it if he knew he wasn’t the only one who had sided with the Slytherin over Harry in this instance. “He did the right thing in bringing Harry here, even if it went against what Harry wanted.”

 

“I can’t believe Harry would want to stay with his relatives when they were hurting him like that. It’s like he really doesn’t care about himself anymore. And running out like that… it was almost…” His expression showed a deep reluctance to say the last word, but after a pause he said quietly, “…suicidal.

 

“No,” Hermione contradicted quickly. That thought was just too horrible to contemplate. “Harry just wasn’t thinking clearly. You saw what he was like when he regained consciousness – he’s been through a terrible ordeal and of course he’s traumatised. But he’d never intentionally hurt himself.”

 

Ron had the look of someone who had lost his innocence and realised that the world was a far darker place than he could ever have imagined. “I hope you’re right.”

 

Hermione did too… But she resolved to keep a close eye on her friend from now on, just in case. What was the saying - hope for the best, prepare for the worst?

 

“I usually am, aren’t I?” she said, trying to make a joke that would lighten the mood a bit, since Ron didn’t seem inclined to fulfil the role himself right now. He didn’t even crack a smile. “It looks like Draco managed to talk him down, at least,” she observed, more subdued. “I don’t think Harry will try to leave again.”

 

Ron nodded. “Never thought I’d see the day where Draco Malfoy would calm Harry down rather than rile him up.”

 

“It was rather impressive, wasn’t it?” she replied. Usually just being in the same room together was enough to spark an argument between the two, but this time Draco had gone up against an extremely angry and upset Harry – who, when in such a state was virtually impossible to get through to even for his best friends – and managed to settle him. So much so that Harry had actually fallen asleep, which was incredible even given that Harry had to be fatigued from his recent recovery and the emotional outburst.

 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed, but he didn’t sound happy about it. After a moment he blew out a sigh. “What is wrong with us, Hermione? Why is Malfoy the one out there looking after Harry? Why was he the first person to realise that Harry was being abused by his family? Where were we when Harry needed us the most? How did we let this happen to him? What sort of friends are we?”

 

A stream of explanations and reasons passed through her thoughts, but in the end she knew that they were only excuses, and poor ones at that. There was just no way to escape the fact that, if it hadn’t been for Draco, they wouldn’t have gone to check on Harry in time and he would be dead right now. “Bad friends,” she admitted.

 

He nodded jerkily. “What are we supposed to do now? How on earth are we supposed to make up for this? We let him go back to that place every summer for _five years_. While he was being beaten up and starved, here we were, playing with Fred and George’s tricks and toys, discussing career choices, arguing about Fleur, having mock Quidditch matches and gorging ourselves on Mum’s cooking. We’re supposed to look out for him and we nearly let him be murdered by his own uncle! I wouldn’t be surprised if he hated us now and never wanted to talk to us again, we’ve let him down so badly.”

 

“Harry’s not like that,” Hermione said, and it only made her feel worse. “He’ll forgive us in a heartbeat – or it won’t even occur to him that there’s anything to forgive.”

 

Ron looked even more guilty, averting his eyes to the ground and scuffing his shoe against the wall. “We don’t deserve that.”

 

“No, we don’t,” she agreed. “But that’s sort of the point of forgiveness, isn’t it? You can’t deserve it, or earn it. It can only be given freely… and I think Harry will.”

 

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least try to make it up to him.”

 

Hermione thought about that for a few moments and came to realise that it didn’t sit right with her. She didn’t want to go into this with the wrong motivation. “We’re going to be there for him, Ron. We’re going to help him and support him. But not as a form of penance because we feel guilty about what happened. Because we’re his friends and that’s what friends do.”

 

His gaze rose to meet her eyes. He smiled. “You’re right, as usual. Thanks ‘Mione.”

 

She smiled back and took his hand to squeeze it gently. “We’re going to get through this together. The three of us, as always.”

 

“Hm.” Ron glanced out the window, wearing a thoughtful expression. “Maybe not _just_ three of us.”

 

Hermione could see that Harry was beginning to stir and the experience didn’t look too pleasant for him as he twisted and turned, almost as though he were trying to burrow under both the blanket and the ground beneath it while curling into as tight a ball as he could manage. A nightmare, she thought, and almost wondered what it was about until she decided that she really didn’t want to know unless Harry confided in them. Knowing the extent of his injuries was haunting enough.

 

Draco moved closer so he was kneeling only a few feet away from Harry, not trying to touch him. His lips moved to say something, though Hermione couldn’t discern what, and Harry’s body stilled almost immediately.

 

“Blimey,” Ron breathed. “How did he _do_ that? He didn’t even get socked in the jaw or gut once.” He absently rubbed those areas on himself with remembered pain – as Harry’s roommate at Hogwarts and best friend, the task of waking Harry during a bad dream had fallen to him on more than one occasion and Harry had a tendency to lash out. They had a better idea of why, now.

 

They watched as Harry slowly sat up and a quiet conversation ensued. Harry sent an apprehensive glance toward the house; while Ron and Hermione didn’t think he’d seen them they lurched back from the window as though he had.

 

“D’you think they’re going to come back in now?” Ron asked, twisting his hands together nervously.

 

“Probably,” Hermione replied, trying to suppress a similar feeling of anxiety. She had a powerful urge to read up on the effects of abuse and strategies on how to help a person recover from it, but she didn’t think the Weasleys would own books covering those sorts of topics and possibly the Hogwarts Library wouldn’t either. What she needed was a Muggle library, but she didn’t know if there was one nearby and there was no time to find one because she didn’t have a time turner anymore and Harry would be here any minute. She hated feeling unprepared – it was like going into an exam without studying (not that she had ever done that, but she’d had nightmares about it).

 

“What do we do?” Ron asked, wide-eyed and looking to her for the answers that she didn’t have this time.

 

“I don’t know.” The three words she hated most to hear coming from her own mouth. “I guess we take our cues from him, go with what feels right?”

 

He nodded and they moved to the kitchen to be there when Harry walked in.

 

The adults of the house were already there, deep in conversation.

 

“‘Ow ‘orrible,” Fleur was saying emphatically, leaning into Bill’s comforting embrace. “Poor leetle ‘Arry.”

 

“Yes, it’s dreadful,” Mrs Weasley said, agreeing with her for the first time that Hermione had seen. “But you said you were able to finish healing him last night, Poppy?”

 

“Thanks to Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey replied. “If it hadn’t been for the shock of finding out how Mr Potter has been treated, I would say that I have never been more surprised than I have been by Mr Malfoy in the past two days.”

 

Hermione agreed with the sentiment. She had thought she knew exactly who Draco Malfoy was – a spoilt, bigoted brat with delusions of superiority – but all her perceptions of him had been turned on their head.

 

“I don’t imagine Lucius would be too happy if he knew that his son had helped to save Harry’s life,” Mr Weasley continued, looking pleased by the thought.

 

“Which makes it all the more impressive that he did,” Bill said. “It had to’ve taken guts for Draco to break from his father – his entire upbringing – like that. He’s taken a big risk.”

 

Mrs Weasley noticed, then, that Ron and Hermione were standing in the doorway. “Poppy tells us that Harry woke up,” she said to them. “But she left the room so he wouldn’t feel overcrowded… How was he?”

 

They exchanged glances. “Uh, fine physically,” Hermione volunteered.

 

“He kind of freaked out, though,” Ron said. “I guess he thought we were his relatives trying to hurt him again…”

 

Mr Weasley’s expression darkened. “I have half a mind to pay those people a visit. This time the state of their lounge room will be the least of their worries.”

 

“Arthur,” Mrs Weasley admonished quietly, laying a hand on his arm. “You won’t be any help to Harry or the Order if you get yourself sent to Azkaban. Let the authorities handle it.”

 

“Speaking of which, has anyone told Dumbledore about this?” asked Bill.

 

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “He’s been travelling a lot lately, so we haven’t been able to contact him yet-”

 

“Don’t,” Harry said.

 

It was almost comical how the room went silent and everyone spun to see that Harry had just come through the front door, Draco following behind him.

 

Harry shrank back slightly under the weight of their gazes.

 

Mrs Weasley stood up. “Harry, dear, how good to see you.” She moved closer to him and enveloped him in a gentle hug. Hermione’s keen eye didn’t miss how Harry had battled the urge to back away and stiffened in her arms, but his words and tone didn’t betray any of this as he said, “Thanks, Mrs Weasley. It’s good to see you, too.”

 

She let go and stepped back; Harry visibly relaxed and Hermione guessed it wasn’t a good idea to try to hug him herself, then, as much as she wanted to.

 

“Hey, Harry,” she greeted, and green eyes shifted to look at her. The emotions there were too hard to read. “How are you feeling?”

 

He tensed again and Hermione mentally kicked herself. “I’m fine,” he said, moving his gaze to rest on the Healer in the room. “Thanks for that, Madam Pomfrey. You always seem to be fixing me up for one reason or another, don’t you?”

 

She smiled. “You’re my favourite patient, Mr Potter. But that is no reason to wind up in my infirmary again this year. You take care of yourself.”

 

Guilt flashed through his eyes even as he smiled in return. “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

 

 _So will I,_ Hermione swore silently.

 

Harry scanned the room, nodding or saying a brief “Hi” to each careful greeting that came his way. Everyone was walking on eggshells.

 

Then he paused, surprise overriding his features. “Fleur?”

 

“Bonjour, ‘Arry,” she said throatily, trying to beam brightly at him but struggling with the weight of the knowledge of what he’d been through.

 

“Uh, hi,” he said uncertainly, looking between her and Bill, who still had an arm around her shoulders. “I think I’m missing something here.”

 

“You mean your friends ‘ave not told you through their letters?” Fleur asked, shooting a reproachful glance toward Ron and Hermione.

 

A faint shadow of Harry’s fury from last summer when they hadn’t been able to tell him anything important through their correspondence crossed his face. “Told me what?”

 

Fleur’s smile was more genuine this time and Hermione noticed with annoyance how Ron’s eyes glazed over at the sight. “Bill and I are engaged to be married!”

 

Harry blinked. “Wow, er – congratulations.”

 

Hermione could hear in his voice that he was making an effort to sound happy for them, and not in the way that Mrs Weasley, Ginny and herself did – pretending that they were pleased about the coming union when in fact they really didn’t like Fleur very much and would prefer that Bill choose someone less full of herself – but in a way that seemed to show that he wanted to share in their joy yet didn’t know how to muster such a positive emotion in himself anymore.

 

“Never mind that now,” Mrs Weasley said, displaying her usual dislike for any mention of the wedding. “Harry, dear, why don’t you want us to talk to Dumbledore about-”

 

“He’s busy,” Harry cut in, defensiveness leaping back into his expression and posture. “Madam Pomfrey said so. There’s no need to bother him with…” He gestured vaguely and Hermione didn’t miss the fact that the hand he used was the one scarred by his detentions with Umbridge, nor that his reasons for not bringing the issue to Dumbledore sounded the same. “This,” he finished lamely.

 

“Harry, we have to tell him,” Mr Weasley said apologetically. “And we have to contact the Child Protection division of the Ministry, too…”

 

“No,” Harry protested, desperation showing in his eyes even though his voice was steady. “I’m not there anymore and,” he cast a brief glance behind at Draco, “and I’m not going back. My injuries are gone; I’m fine now. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to tell anyone else.”

 

“Harry, your aunt and uncle have to be brought to justice for what they did to you. They can’t be allowed to get away with treating a child like that.”

 

“If we take this to the Ministry, it will get to the media,” Harry said. “You know it will – it’s me. The Daily Prophet would have a field day with that kind of story and I can’t… I can’t…”

 

“Okay, Harry,” Mrs Weasley conceded, evidently unable to bear the unspoken plea behind his words. “We won’t take it to the authorities for now. But I’m afraid we really do have to tell Dumbledore.”

 

Harry shook his head. “No. Don’t. He’s got enough to deal with right now without adding this on top. It really isn’t that important.”

 

Hermione remembered what he had been saying earlier about how his life wasn’t worth anything and she couldn’t keep quiet. “ _Harry,_ your wellbeing is most certainly-”

 

“Not an issue anymore,” he interrupted. “I’m _fine._ All healed, see?” He fluffed the hair on the side of his head – which, Hermione suddenly realised, she had been unconsciously longing to do. He dropped the hand. “Don’t tell him.”

 

“Harry, I’m sorry but-”

 

“No.” He backed up a step, shaking his head again, more fervently this time. “No one else. Not him. No. No, no, _No!_ ”

 

The doorframe rattled; Harry backed up so far that he nearly bumped into Draco, but the blonde side-stepped deftly around him and circled around to the front.

 

“Harry,” he said.

 

The doorframe stopped shaking instantly; Harry drew in a deep gasp of air, the wild look fading from his eyes.

 

“Easy there, Potter,” Draco continued quietly and gradually the trembling of Harry’s body ceased. Hermione noticed how Draco made no attempt to touch him, yet the soothing baritone of his voice seemed to ground him. “Okay?”

 

Harry nodded wearily.

 

When Drao turned around, his expression quickly morphed from concern to a glare. “What are you all playing at?” he hissed. “Are you trying to drive him away? He said no Dumbledore, so we don’t tell Dumbledore. The old fool was the one who sent him there in the first place. We may not be able to prevent him from finding out indefinitely, but we don’t have to tell him outright.”

 

“Draco…” Mr Weasley tried to explain, “with Harry’s godfather gone, and the Dursleys no longer suitable guardians-” (Draco scoffed, “They were _never_ suitable!”) “-Dumbledore is responsible for Harry’s welfare. He needs to be informed…”

 

“No,” Draco said. “I went against Potter’s wishes by telling you – I saw no other choice because it was literally a matter of life or death. But since no one’s life hangs in the balance over this decision, I say we’re not going to tell Dumbledore until Potter is ready.”

 

“Well, dear, that’s not really your choice to make,” Mrs Weasley pointed out.

 

But Hermione had seen Harry’s extreme agitation at the thought of Dumbledore finding out, and then the immense relief on his face when Draco had taken up the argument for him. Hadn’t she just decided to take her cues from Harry?

 

“I agree with Draco,” she said firmly.

 

Startled grey eyes looked over at her. When Draco saw that she was earnest in her support he gave a slight nod of gratitude.

 

Ron appeared surprised too, but he quickly caught on. “So do I.”

 

His parents stared at him in shock. Hermione realised this had to be a momentous occasion for them – Ron had just agreed with Draco. Openly. Deliberately. In public. She supposed that only Draco’s new attitude toward Harry had made this possible, because with anything else Ron would disagree with the Slytherin simply on principle.

 

“I don’t understand why this is so important to you, Harry,” Mr Weasley sighed. “But… we’ll respect your wishes, for now.”

 

“You won’t tell Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked tentatively, looking as though he wasn’t sure if he dared to believe it. “You won’t tell anyone else?”

 

A beat of hesitation. “You have my word, Harry.”

 

The others in the room nodded their reluctant agreement and Harry visibly relaxed. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

 

An uncomfortable silence followed, until Mrs Weasley said brightly, “Breakfast anyone?”

 

The group accepted the distraction with enthusiasm. Mrs Weasley spent the next ten minutes bustling around the kitchen preparing what looked to be a feast that could easily feed twenty people, refusing any offers of assistance from her family or guests. Hermione thought that the table had to be spelled because it didn’t look very strong, but it didn’t creak or bow under the weight of each mountain of food that was added.

 

Those who were already seated shifted around to make room for the others. Hermione ended up sitting next to Draco and thought that she should have found it uncomfortable, but without the usual sneers and insults it wasn’t actually too bad. Hesitating to join them, Harry eventually took the chair on Draco’s other side. Ron then looked torn, glancing between the free chair next to Hermione and the one next to Harry. Hermione saw his dilemma, hid a smile at the knowledge that he wanted to sit next to her and was perhaps even jealous that Draco had his usual spot, then tilted her head toward Harry.

 

When Mrs Weasley was the only one left standing she encouraged them all to dig in, going around filling each mug with tea, coffee or pumpkin juice as each person preferred. She reached Harry’s place and noticed that, unlike the others, he hadn’t yet moved to fill his plate. She leaned around him to do it herself, her arm accidently bumping into Harry’s shoulder.

 

He flinched.

 

And then, seeing that everyone had noticed and was now staring at him, he flushed and tried to sink lower in his chair. Hermione hurriedly looked away and the others did the same, starting up loud conversations with forced enthusiasm.

 

A few minutes later Hermione ventured another quick glance in his direction and saw that Harry was gazing down at a full plate of toast, sausages, bacon and eggs with an expression bordering very close to panic.

 

“Go on, mate,” Ron said, noticing the same. “You need to eat – you’re as thin as a bowtruckle!”

 

Harry looked like he wanted to shrink in on himself, but he nodded and picked up his cutlery, cutting a small square from a piece of buttered toast and bringing it up to his mouth.

 

As Harry chewed slowly, Ron watched with his brow furrowed. Hermione could imagine what he was thinking – after a month at the Dursley’s living on minimum rations, one would think that Harry would be ravenous and consuming everything edible that was within reach. Instead, in the time it took Ron to polish off his first helping and start on his second, Harry had barely finished one piece of toast.

 

“Have some meat, Harry,” Ron coaxed, waving a half-eaten sausage under his nose in a way that was presumably meant to be enticing.

 

Harry nodded again, slowly starting in on the rest of the food on his plate. Ron seemed inclined to make sure that Harry ate all of it, watching him closely and encouraging him not to stop.

 

Harry was beginning to look nauseous, but he soldiered through it with what looked like a mixture of determination and fear. Hermione started to feel worried as she realised that this was a very rich meal to eat after an extended period of near-starvation. If Harry continued on like this, he would run the danger of vomiting it all back up.

 

She opened her mouth to say something-

 

“Quit hogging all the best sausages, Potter,” Draco said, swapping his own nearly empty plate for Harry’s still-overloaded one and continuing to eat as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

 

Hermione saw that Ron was about to object, but she caught his eye and gave a minute headshake, glancing pointedly at the poorly hidden relief on Harry’s face. Realisation dawned and Ron turned back to his own meal without saying a word. No one else had noticed the exchange, except perhaps Madam Pomfrey who wore a small smile of approval.

 

After a few minutes, the lack of conversation between the four of them started to become noticeable. The natural inclination was to ask how Harry’s and Draco’s holidays had been so far, but Hermione already knew the answer and it wasn’t pleasant. She didn’t really know what else to say.

 

Draco finished his breakfast and carefully placed his knife and fork together at an angle on the plate, then lifted a napkin and dabbed delicately at his lips. When that, too, had been folded and set down neatly on the plate, he leaned back in his chair with a casual elegance and said, “So Granger, Weasley, had a good summer so far?”

 

Hermione was caught somewhat off-guard. “Oh, um, it’s been alright. I was at home with my parents for the first couple of weeks, then I came here when they left on a holiday to France.”

 

Harry choked on a sip of pumpkin juice; Madam Pomfrey was quick with an “ _Anapneo”_ that swiftly cleared his airway.

 

“Harry?” Hermione and Ron questioned simultaneously, and Draco added his own “Potter?”

 

Harry flushed again, averting his eyes. “It’s nothing. Ah – why didn’t you go with them, Hermione?”

 

She had said something that startled him, possibly even upset him, but he didn’t want to talk about it so Hermione decided to let it go. “I didn’t really want to leave the UK with everything that is going on, but I didn’t mind them leaving the country so much.” She shrugged. “I figure they’re safer over there… though with that line of thinking, I guess I’d rather they were in Australia or something.” That was something to consider, actually. They probably wouldn’t agree to such a big move right now, especially if she wouldn’t go with them, but if the war heated up… She’d have to come up with a plan to convince them, just in case. She added it to her mental ‘To Do’ list.  


She realised then that what she’d said had put a damper on their conversation. “But, ah, it’s been fun spending time with the Weasleys here. Visiting Fred and George’s joke shop was definitely a highlight.”

 

Harry’s face brightened a bit. “You’ve seen it, then? How’s business going for them?”

 

“Brilliant,” Ron said. “When we went the whole place was packed with customers – the rest of the shops in Diagon Alley couldn’t match it even if they added their numbers all together.”

 

“They’re quite the entrepreneurs, really,” Hermione added. “And some of their products are extraordinary. My favourites are the Patented Daydream Charms…” Her voice trailed off and her face took on a wistful expression.

 

“Yep,” Ron said happily. “That’s exactly what you look like when you use one. But Hermione, you’re supposed to save them for Professor Binn’s History of Magic class.”

 

Snapping out of the memory of a daydream she’d tried out last week, Hermione mock-frowned at Ron. “I didn’t get an Outstanding for that subject by sleeping through the class, Ronald.”

 

She noticed that Harry once again looked uncomfortable and recalled with a pang of sympathy that Harry had fallen asleep in the History exam and had the vision of Sirius being tortured by Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries.

 

“You got your O.W.L results,” Draco said.

 

“Yeah,” Ron confirmed. “Hermione got nine ‘Outstandings’, of course. She’s a genius is our girl.”

 

Harry smiled over at her. “I know I said this in one of my letters, but congratulations again Hermione. You definitely earned it.”

 

She beamed.

 

“Yes, well done, Granger,” Draco agreed absently. “That is an impressive achievement. No surprise though.”

 

She blinked, startled. That was a compliment. A real compliment, with no ‘for a mudblood’ tacked onto the end.

 

“Thanks,” she said honestly. His affirmation almost meant more than the compliments from her family and friends had, because there was no obligation there for him to say something nice. Not that he was really paying much attention, which might account for the slip. He seemed to be distracted by a different train of thought.

 

“How did you guys go?” Hermione asked, remembering that Harry had evaded the question over mail.

 

“Our results never came,” Draco responded.

 

Hermione was horrified. “You mean you still don’t know?” she squeaked. “Isn’t that driving you crazy? I was stressing out of my mind until they came!”

 

“She was,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Completely mental.”

 

Draco smirked. “I can imagine.” She expected an impersonation, but one wasn’t forthcoming, much to her surprise. “But I had forgotten about it until now, to be honest. There were more pressing issues.”

 

Oh. Right.

 

“They probably did come,” Harry said quietly, prodding a left-over crust with his fork. “But they didn’t require a reply so Uncle Vernon wouldn’t have felt the need to pass them on to us.” He glanced at Draco. “Sorry. They probably ended up as a pile of ash.”

 

Harry’s uncle had _burned_ them? Hermione had framed hers and Harry’s was burnt before he even had a chance to look at them? “That’s cruel!” she blurted.

 

The three of them stared at her. “That’s hardly the worst of his crimes,” Draco pointed out.

 

She flushed, realising she must have sounded really stupid right then. Her obsession with getting good grades at school tended to mess with her priorities and perceptions of the world. In this case, it had been extremely insensitive. “Oh, I know, I’m sorry Harry…”

 

He winced. “Please don’t do that.”

 

Her cheeks reddened further and she hid behind her cup of pumpkin juice.

 

“I bet Professor McGonagall would send us another copy if we owled the request to her,” Draco suggested.

 

Hermione set down her cup, embarrassment forgotten. “That’s a great idea!” she enthused.

 

But Harry had paled dramatically. “Hedwig!” he cried, leaping from his chair and scanning the room frantically. “Where is she? Is she here? She’s here, right? Malfoy, please don’t tell me you left her behind, if I’m not there to protect her Dudley will kill her for sure, I don’t want to lose her, I can’t-”

 

“She’s here!” Ron yelled to be heard over the top of him and Harry quieted immediately to listen. “I forgot to tell you, sorry. She arrived yesterday a few hours after you did. She’s upstairs in my bedroom with Pig and they’re getting on much better than usual, actually…”

 

“She’s here?” Harry repeated. “She’s safe?”

 

“Yeah, mate,” Ron assured him. “She’s fine. Do you want to come up and see her – oh.”

 

As if on cue, Harry’s beautiful snowy white owl came gliding down the stairs and into the kitchen, closely followed by a small ball of fluffy feathers that zipped about on an erratic flight path that miraculously brought him to the same destination.

 

“Hey, Hedwig,” Harry said, holding out his arm for her. She landed gently, curving her talons around the thin limb to steady herself. He smiled tentatively and stroked the top of her head with the fingers of his free hand before letting her nibble on their tips. “How are you doing, girl?”

 

She hooted softly at him.

 

“Good to hear.” He nabbed a left over piece of sausage from Draco’s plate and held it up to her. She plucked it deftly from his hand, careful not to nip him, and after swallowing it hooted again.

 

Draco chuckled and retrieved a whole sausage from the platter in the centre of the table, offering it to Harry without being asked. “Clever bird, that one. She knows what she wants – and how to get it.”

 

Hedwig’s expression appeared almost smug as she elegantly nibbled away at the meat.

 

Pigwidgeon twittered excitedly, butting into the side of Draco’s head in his uncoordinated haste to perch on his shoulder.

 

“Hm,” Draco said, frowning at the little owl. “That was hardly a dignified landing. You should take lessons in decorum from Hedwig.”

 

The snowy lifted her head briefly from her meal to hoot her agreement.

 

Oblivious, Pigwidgeon chirped and tried to clamber down Draco’s arm to get closer to the food on the table. Draco shook his head exasperatedly and fed a piece of bacon to the insistent bird. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything that looks less like a pig-” Hermione saw Harry look up in surprise “-but you certainly eat like one.”

 

“His name is actually Pigwidgeon,” Hermione told him. “Ron just shortens it.”

 

Draco smirked. “Oh, and here I was thinking he’d been given a stupid name. But that’s _much_ better.”

 

Ron scowled. “Don’t look at me – Ginny was the one who came up with it.”

 

“Where is Ginny, by the way?” Mrs Weasley spoke up, tuning into their conversation (or, more likely, only now revealing that she had listened in).

 

“Oh.” Hermione glanced at Harry. “Um, she’s in her room.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Uh…” She tried not the let it happen, but her gaze flicked to Harry again.

 

She knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her earlier, but Ginny had harboured a secret (and in the first few years, occasionally not so secret) crush on him since they’d first met at King’s Cross Station. It had taken a lot of courage for Ginny to finally admit to his face that she loved him, but she had chosen the wrong moment; Harry hadn’t been in the right place for it emotionally, and understandably so given how insecure and upset he had to have been feeling. Not realising its significance, Harry had thrown the declaration back at her and then stormed out. Once Malfoy had gone after him, Ginny said she was going back to sleep because she was still a little tired. Her eyes had been suspiciously bright, but Hermione had decided that Harry’s was the greater need at that moment. She wondered now if that had been a mistake on her part.

 

Harry looked back at her bemusedly for a moment, and then his eyes widened in horror. “Oh god, it’s my fault, isn’t it? I upset her before – I’m such an idiot!” He twitched his arm to dislodge Hedwig, and without further ado he ran up the stairs.

 

ooOOoo


	18. Stranger Friends

 

Harry hesitated outside Ginny’s door, hand poised to knock.

 

He had really hurt her feelings this time – he knew he had. He’d seen it on her face as soon as he said those words and now she was holed up in her bedroom. He hoped she hadn’t been crying; not only would it make him feel even worse, but he knew from experience that he was terrible when it came to dealing with emotional females. But he had to try to fix this, if he could.

 

He took a deep breath and knocked. “Ginny?”

 

A pause. “Who is it?”

 

He frowned slightly – he was fairly sure that she could recognise his voice and her family would probably just barge in on her rather than knocking and waiting for a reply. “Um, a jerk who is really sorry for what he did earlier and hopes you can forgive him?”

 

He felt a rush of relief when the door opened.

 

“Come in, Harry,” she said, moving back to sit at her desk. It was positioned by the window, he noticed, and had a great view of the garden, but he was more concerned with the fact that she wasn’t looking at him. She was writing studiously on a piece of parchment, almost as though he wasn’t there.

 

He cleared his throat. “So, ah, I’ve decided I’m not going to leave after all. It was a pretty stupid thing to do, running out like that.”

 

“Yes, it was,” she agreed, the scratching of her quill never ceasing.

 

“But, um, what I said to you kind of makes that pale in comparison. It was dumb and it wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

 

She glanced briefly up at him. “Thanks.”

 

Quiet stretched out between them and Harry shifted awkwardly.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked at last. It was a task she seemed rather engrossed in, so it had to be important. A homework assignment? She didn’t have any textbooks open nearby…

 

“Writing a letter to my boyfriend,” she told him.

 

Oh. Boyfriend, right. With everything that had been going on in the past few months, Harry had almost forgotten that such normal things as dating still existed for some people. Things with Cho had fallen apart and before the Department of Mysteries he had been disappointed with the way it had turned out between them. Now, though, he thought that it was probably for the best. She deserved better, he had more important things to worry about and to be honest the very idea of being close to someone like that after…

 

His mind balked, refusing to go down that trail of thought. He tried instead to recall who Ginny was involved with at the moment. She had been with Neville for a short time in their fourth year, mainly for the Yule Ball, and for most of last year had been going out with someone – Mitchell, Michael… Michael Corner, that was it. But Harry was fairly sure they’d broken up after some Quidditch game – yes, Michael was dating Cho now, wasn’t he? Harry wasn’t even jealous and he thought that perhaps a normal person would have been. It all just seemed so pointless now, so futile. But then, he couldn’t blame people for wanting to find some comfort in each other during these troubled times.

 

He remembered, then. Last he had heard Ginny was going out with Dean Thomas. “Is that Dean, still?” he asked.

 

“Yes, who else would it be? Hogwarts doesn’t exactly have the greatest selection of guys to choose from. But unlike some people, Dean is kind and considerate and gentlemanly and funny and he cares about me. Plus, he’s almost as good a kisser as I am.”

 

Harry blinked. That was a little more explanation than he had expected; a simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed. But then, he _had_ been trying to start a conversation. “Um, good for you. I’m glad you’ve found someone who makes you happy.”

 

“Yes, he does,” Ginny responded almost defiantly. Harry began to get the feeling that he was missing something in this exchange and decided to bail before he unknowingly got himself in too deep.

 

“Well, I’ll let you get back to writing your letter, then. We’re okay, right?”

 

“Sure, Harry,” she replied, the scratching of her quill resuming.

 

He didn’t _feel_ sure, but she had accepted his apology, she hadn’t yelled at him and it didn’t look like she had been crying or sulking. Besides, she had been over her crush on him for years now and clearly she was happy with Dean, so that whole scene in the living room earlier was just about her trying to be a good friend, which he appreciated.

 

So they were probably okay. Which was good, because Ron would have probably felt it necessary to do the whole protective older brother thing if Harry had seriously upset her and she was formidable enough all on her own.  


“Well, there’s leftover breakfast downstairs if you’re hungry – providing Ron’s owl hasn’t managed to eat it all yet, of course.”

 

“Maybe later,” she said absently.

 

He nodded, even though the gesture went unseen, and withdrew from the room.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco didn’t really get along with the Malfoy family owls at home and generally avoided them unless he was sending or receiving a letter. So, on a number of different levels, it felt very odd to be sitting at the Weasley’s kitchen table with a tiny owl (who belonged to the one person he had once enjoyed tormenting the most because he was just so easy to get to) sitting in the palm of his hand, and a larger, snowy owl perched on his knee (who for some unfathomable reason had decided he was the next best choice for a human perch once Potter had made his hasty exit). The birds actually made the situation easier, since he could look at and focus on them rather than the people in the room. Not having to engage directly with anyone meant that he was able to fade into relative obscurity.

 

“Well, I suppose I better be heading off to work,” Mr Weasley announced, rising from the table and giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek. “Those hawkers will already be out and up to mischief by now, taking advantage of the fear running rampant these days…”  He shook his head in disgust.

 

For a moment Draco wondered what ‘Misused Muggle Artefacts’ had to do with the fear currently dominating the wizarding populace, before he recalled that Potter had mentioned after reading though his letters one day that the Weasley father had been promoted to a position that dealt with counterfeit defensive spells and protective objects. Draco’s father had always asserted that the red-headed Muggle-loving pathetic excuse for a pure-blooded wizard would never rise up in the ranks of the Ministry, but apparently Lucius was wrong about a lot of things, because Mr Weasley now had ten or so people working for him and was performing a service of recognisable benefit to the wizarding world. In addition, he was also a member of Dumbledore’s Order, which existed outside the Ministry yet seemed to be doing more for wizarding welfare than the government by making efforts to actively counter the Dark Lord. Meanwhile Draco’s father was squandering in Azkaban, for effectively working _against_ the good of the wizarding world. Ron had more reason to be proud of his father than Draco did – a turn of events that Draco would never have expected.

 

Mr Weasley retrieved a faded hat from a stand in the corner and picked up a somewhat battered briefcase. His appearance was nothing like the sleek, professional exterior that Lucius always prided himself on, and yet it seemed more honest, more sincere, somehow. He swept the room with a glance. “Take care, all of you. Remember, stay inside the wards, and if you must go out make sure you take someone with you, and don’t let anyone in without an approved password, and-”

 

“We know, Arthur,” Mrs Weasley interrupted.

 

“And take good care of Harry,” Mr Weasley continued anyway, adding quietly, “Poor lad.”

 

“We will,” everyone chorused (even Draco) and Mr Weasley gave a nod of approval before exiting through the front door. A faint _pop_ a few moments later indicated that he had Disapparated.

 

“We should probably go, too,” said the eldest Weasley child – Bill, Draco thought his name was, although they hadn’t been formally introduced –including Fleur Delacour in his gesture. “The goblins despise tardiness.”

 

“Yes, zey are very particular about zings like zat,” the pretty blonde agreed. Draco remembered her as the Tri-Wizard Champion from Beauxbatons Academy; it was strange to see her in a home, family environment, like wandering into a room to find a famous celebrity (of greater calibre than that idiot Gilderoy Lockhart) doing housework... ( _Such as Harry Potter, for instance_? a part of his mind thought with a twist of irony). It seemed as though a stunning woman like Fleur, with Veela in her blood, would not fit in with a family like the Weasleys, but she and her fiancé were actually a very handsome couple and they looked to be genuinely in love.

 

The surprises just kept coming this summer, didn’t they?

 

The two soon took their leave as well and Mrs Weasley stood up to start clearing the table. It was refreshing to watch the task be done through magical means after a month of watching Potter do it after every meal in the painstaking Muggle way. A few neat flicks of her wand and the plates started to scrape their left-over scraps into the bin while the dishes neatly rearranged the food that hadn’t been eaten onto a few of the smaller platters that then had a preservation bubble charm cast over them. Cups tipped any small amount of liquid left in them down the sink and then a plug blocked the drain so that the tap could fill the sink with hot, soapy water. A scrubbing brush set to work on cleaning the plates, glasses and cutlery, as a cloth wiped down the table surface and a broom went around the floor. A towel dried off each item as they placed themselves on the rack (never becoming wet itself in the same manner as Draco’s bath towel) and then allowed them to float off to their respective homes in the cupboards.

 

Hedwig hooted happily, as though she enjoyed the feel of magic in the air as much as Draco did. The Muggle world, aside from the abusive Dursleys, hadn’t been as intolerable as he’d expected, but this was the world as it was supposed to be.

 

“Thank you for the hospitality, Molly,” Madam Pomfrey said, setting down an empty cup of what had been tea, which whisked itself away to be cleaned as soon as she released it. She rose from her chair. “I really should be returning to Hogwarts, but do not hesitate to call on me again if Mr Potter experiences any complications, or if anyone in your own family is in need of my assistance.”

 

“Thanks, Poppy, I will,” Mrs Weasley replied, glancing away from overseeing the clean-up to give the Healer a warm smile. “Say hi to the rest of the faculty for me, Minerva especially. It has been too long since we’ve all had the chance to catch up.”

 

“True enough,” Madam Pomfrey agreed. “The current state of matters does not leave much time for casual socialising with friends.”

 

“The war won’t last forever,” Mrs Weasley said. “Better days will come.”

 

The Healer nodded, smiling slightly. Then she turned to Draco.

 

“Mr Malfoy. These-” she pulled a number of vials from her robes “-are the nutritive potions for Mr Potter that I mentioned to you earlier.” She handed them to him; Pigwidgeon fluttered out of the way and went to perch on Ron’s shoulder. “Please ensure he has half a vial each day and when you run out contact me so I can evaluate his progress and provide you with more of the potion if it is necessary.”

 

Draco remembered that she had said these potions tasted awful and knew that Potter was not going to be happy when he was told he had to drink them. “Pawning this job off on me, are you, Madam Pomfrey? How did I get so lucky?”

 

Her sly grin belonged on the features of a Slytherin, not a kindly school Healer. “I prefer to call it strategic delegation.”

 

He frowned at her, but pocketed the vials nonetheless, accepting the task. Just as she was about to head for the fireplace in the lounge room, a thought occurred to him. He shifted Hedwig onto his arm and stood up to catch her before she left. “Do you happen to have any Dreamless Sleep potion with you?” he asked.

 

“I do,” she said slowly. “But the diagnosis charm I cast over Mr Potter showed that he has been using that particular potion regularly over the past few weeks.  It isn’t meant to be used for prolonged periods of time; I don’t think any more will be healthy for him...”

 

“Neither will the nightmares,” Draco countered. “Especially after… recent events.” He loaded the meaning behind his words into his eyes as he looked at her, unwilling to say any more out loud.

 

She dithered, understanding and sympathy warring with her medical knowledge. “I don’t know, Mr Malfoy…”

 

“What if I promise to only give it to him if he has already tried to go to sleep naturally, but woken up again after only a few hours? You know he needs the rest. Sleep deprivation can hardly be the healthier option.”

 

She hesitated a few moments longer and then tilted her head in consent. “Very well, Mr Malfoy. But only in moderation.” She pulled a bottle from yet another pocket (he began to suspect that the coat was magically extended because there were so many so close together that could not possibly be deep enough to hold all those items without magic) and handed it to him. “Anything else?”

 

“Actually…” She gave a mock sigh and Draco quirked his lips at her in response. “Could you ask Professor McGonagall to send along another copy of the O.W.L. results for Potter and myself?” He didn’t try to explain that Potter would probably feel more comfortable having Hedwig close at hand for a while because he didn’t want to draw any more attention to Potter’s fear for his owl’s safety than Potter himself had already. Besides, this method would be faster – which, judging by her grin that was a combination of excitement and tension, Granger supported whole-heartedly.

 

“Certainly.  Is that all?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for everything. Potter owes his life to you.”

 

“To you as well, Mr Malfoy.” She offered a smile and a nod of respect, which he returned in kind.

 

A pouch of Floo powder was retrieved from one of her pockets – she didn’t wear a coat like this when she was at Hogwarts, so it had to be her house-call portable kit, Draco deduced – and she left in a flare of green flames.

 

When Draco turned around it was to discover that he had somehow managed to find himself left alone with Granger and the Weasel. With Potter missing, they were no longer distracted from him by the presence of their troubled friend. He had the rather unsettling thought that focusing on the owl wasn’t quite going to cut it this time, but he backed into an armchair and gave it his best shot.

 

“So Malfoy,” Ron began, sitting on the couch across from him with Granger taking the space at his side. “What the hell happened to you?”

 

“Language, Ronald,” Mrs Weasley’s voice sounded from the kitchen, but the admonishment was delivered without any real passion – it was likely she had been losing this battle with her son for a while.

 

Draco looked up from his stroking of Hedwig reluctantly, setting his features into an impassive expression to face the two people who had effectively cornered him. “Do not concern yourself, Mrs Weasley,” he called back, with just the right level of volume to be heard without giving the impression of shouting. “I have long since become accustomed to the less polished speech of my peers.”

 

“Well that’s more like it,” Ron muttered.

 

Granger’s eyes flicked between them, then rolled. “I think what Ron meant to say was: you seem to have changed quite a bit since we saw you last, and we were just wondering what had caused this… unexpected transformation.”

 

Honestly, the nerve of some people.  He had spent less than 24 conscious hours being civil to them and now they thought they had the right to ask such an intrusive question? “I’m sorry, was there some point in the past couple of days where I gave you the mistaken impression that I would in any way be inclined to share my private thoughts and emotions with the two of you?”

 

“You’re friends with Harry, aren’t you? Because I thought it would have been clear to anyone by now that the three of us come as a package deal,” Ron said.

 

“I save Potter’s life one time and suddenly you presume that we’re friends?”

 

“Well, you can hardly claim to be enemies anymore,” Granger pointed out. “Although if saving his life was all you had done, maybe the idea that you aren’t friends would be more believable. But it is obvious that Harry trusts you and he doesn’t trust easily.”

 

A glare abruptly darkened Ron’s features. “Speaking of which – if you ever do _anything_ to betray that trust, you will regret it.”

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

“Yes.” His tone was deadly serious and Draco’s temptation to laugh was unexpectedly quelled. In that moment he could almost sense a palpable aura of danger around the red-head and for the first time he was led to think that maybe he didn’t want to come up against Weasley in a rage. What he lacked in power and skill, Draco began to suspect that he more than made up for with fierce loyalty and when the extremely talented Granger was thrown into the mix… crossing them seemed a very foolish idea.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Draco said, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

 

Ron looked momentarily surprised, then suspicious that Draco was making fun of him, and then grimly pleased that it appeared he had been taken seriously. “Good.”

 

A change of topic was in order, Draco thought. “So, when your parents agreed to allow Potter and I house room, did they have anywhere in mind for us? Not that I mind sleeping in the kitchen, if it’s necessary,” he added hastily. The proud Malfoy in him actually _did_ mind sleeping in the kitchen – it was so undignified – but if it was a choice between that and the shed outside or being kicked out of the Weasley residence to be at the Dark Lord’s mercy, he would (grudgingly) take the kitchen.

 

Ron shrugged. “Fred and George are living above their shop now, so their room is free. We’ve been using it as a storage space, but I guess we could move some stuff.”

 

Draco frowned slightly. “Is it safe?” he felt compelled to ask, remembering how inventive the Weasley twins had been getting during their last year at Hogwarts before their spectacular exit.

 

“Well, you’ll have less chance of getting trampled in there than in the kitchen, but I can’t make any promises about any of the joke stuff they might have left behind.”

 

Draco sighed, making a mental note to touch nothing in there that was even remotely suspicious – harmless-looking sweets _especially_ included. “I guess I’ll risk it. I suppose Potter and I will be sharing the room?”

 

“No, Harry can bunk with me like he usually does.”

 

“Isn’t the twins’ room designed – in terms of size – for two people?” Draco reasoned, a part of him wondering why he was arguing the point. He was a single child accustomed to having his own suite of rooms all to himself at home and the twins’ room was probably small enough as it was anyway without having to accommodate another person.

 

“So?”

 

“So it will be less cramped for Potter if he shares with me.”

 

At this, Granger touched Ron’s knee and said quietly, “Harry does get a little claustrophobic in small spaces. Maybe Malfoy’s idea has merit.”

 

“I don’t like it,” Ron said grumpily. “What if Harry has a nightmare or something and needs…” He seemed to realise, then, that there was a flaw in his argument, which led Draco to conclude that they had been watching out the window earlier and seen the way he’d calmed Potter down. It was official – his reputation was crumbling around his ears. “Oh hell, fine, he’s sharing with you,” Ron surrendered. “But you’d better take good care of him.”

 

Draco didn’t promise that he would out loud, but gave them a ‘what kind of low-life do you take me for?’ expression which he assumed they would translate as the intended ‘of course I will’.

 

“Hi, guys,” Potter’s voice came from the doorway. Draco turned to see that he was hovering uncertainly, as though he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to, or comfortable with, coming in. “What’s going on?”

 

“We were just about to move your trunks up to Fred and George’s room,” Hermione explained.

 

“If you’re okay sharing with Malfoy,” Ron threw in. “You don’t have to.”

 

Potter’s eyes flicked to Draco, as though asking his permission. At least here was one person who wasn’t inclined to make rash presumptions. Draco dipped his head slightly.

 

“I’m fine with that,” Potter said, giving a shrug that appeared to be nonchalant, though Draco thought he could read a hint of relief in the motion.

 

If Ron was disappointed, he didn’t show it; he simply agreed with Potter’s decision and moved to collect the trunks from the kitchen.

 

After living with Muggles and doing everything the hard way, Mrs Weasley’s offer of magical assistance was more than welcome, especially since the rambling staircase didn’t look to be too easy (or particularly safe) to navigate with a heavy load. She charmed the trunks so they would hover three feet from the floor and move along with gentle guidance, with the added feature of returning to normal if tapped on the lid three times. Draco took control of his own trunk while Ron claimed Potter’s before he had a chance to and Granger led the way, Hedwig gliding smoothly behind them. It was almost like a miniature procession, which made Draco feel a little ridiculous and glad when they finally entered the bedroom.

 

His sense of smell was the first to take stock of the new surroundings; he felt that it was somewhat ominous that there was a distinct odour of explosives in the air and resolved to make sure that no naked flames came anywhere near it. Then he turned his attention to documenting the rest of the area.

 

The room was, as Ron had said, stacked high with cardboard boxes in tilting piles that seemed to imitate the general haphazard structure of the house. A few moments of careful scrutiny revealed two beds set against opposite walls, a tall wardrobe, a wooden desk and a small window open to the outside world.

 

“The wardrobe has an extension charm on it,” said Ron, “so if you don’t mind keeping your clothes in your trunks we can probably put most of the boxes in there.”

 

“Yes, that’s fine-” Draco started to say and then remembered, “ah, actually, I didn’t have time to pack any of Potter’s casual clothes, so do you think you could lend him some, Weasley?” Even if Ron’s clothes were hand-me-downs, they would at least be likely to fit a darn sight better than Dudley’s cast-offs had.

 

“Yeah, of course.” Ron pushed down through the hover charm to touch Potter’s trunk to the floor and tapped the lid the required three times so it wouldn’t try to float up again. Draco copied him with his own trunk. “We can’t have Harry wandering around in Slytherin-coloured pyjamas for the rest of the holidays, after all.”

 

“Oh I don’t know, I think the green really brings out his eyes,” Granger said with a teasing smile and Ron swatted her arm.

 

Within short order the majority of the boxes had been tucked away out of sight, Draco had claimed the bed on the left side of the room and pushed his trunk to the foot of it and Ron had retrieved a few sets of clothes for Potter so that he could get changed.

 

When there seemed to be nothing else to do and the stillness was becoming awkward again, Draco resigned himself to socialising with these people and pulled a game set out of his trunk. “Anyone up for chess?”

 

His words seemed to light a fire in Ron’s eyes; he took a seat across from Draco on the bed and leaned forward eagerly. “Are _you_ up for the challenge?”

 

Draco noticed that Potter and Granger didn’t seem at all surprised that their friend had responded so quickly, nor upset that he hadn’t given either of them the chance to say if they were interested in playing or not. He also noticed that Ron appeared very confident in his own ability, and then had cause to remember that – as a first year student barely twelve years old – Ron had beaten Professor McGonagall’s own enchanted chess set. That was no mean feat.

 

This game, Draco realised with keen anticipation, had the potential to be very interesting.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Well there’s yet another thing I never expected to see,” Hermione said, slipping a pillow behind her back so she could lean against the wall more comfortably. “Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy playing chess together. And enjoying it, too, by the look of things.”

 

They were sitting on Harry’s bed watching the progression of the game, making sure not to speak too loudly so they wouldn’t break the players’ concentration. Both of them knew enough about chess to be able to tell that it was a very close match, with Ron inching ahead in advantage only to have Malfoy gain the upper hand, shortly before their positions switched again.

 

“Well, we hardly provide Ron with any decent competition,” Harry observed, “and I dare say that Crabbe and Goyle wouldn’t even know a knight from a castle let alone what to do with them, so they wouldn’t be much fun to play against either. Ron and Malfoy are probably both relishing the opportunity to finally test their skills against a matched opponent.”

 

“I’m not that bad,” Hermione protested, but after a few moments she giggled. “Who am I kidding? I’m rubbish at that game.”

 

“Well, you can’t be brilliant at everything – it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else.”

 

Hermione snorted. “And Ron certainly enjoys seeing me lose spectacularly to him. Why would the universe want to deny him that pleasure?”

 

The corners of Harry’s lips lifted in an attempted smile. “Exactly.”

 

Hermione looked at him in that concerned way of hers and he knew with a sinking feeling in his gut that his banter and expression hadn’t managed to pass the test.

 

“How are you doing, Harry?” she asked softly.

 

He focused his gaze resolutely on the chess players. “Fine… Oh, ouch, Ron just lost his queen.”

 

“Harry.”

 

“I’m with my friends,” he said, adding the smidge of elaboration in the hope that it would satisfy her. “So I’m good.”

 

“Any lingering pain?” she persisted.

 

“No.” It was true; nothing hurt anymore. He remembered the pain, though. He was still restricting his movements to those that wouldn’t exacerbate his injuries; favouring one ankle when he walked and avoiding leaning against anything so the welts on his back wouldn’t get worse. It was force of habit that he knew from experience would take a few days to break. No one had ever noticed before, but now everything was different, wasn’t it? He forced himself to ease back so he, too, was resting against the wall, even though it made him feel discomforted. And he tried not to think about the other pains that were missing – like the feeling of being ripped in half from the inside.

 

_“Like that, Potter? I bet I fill you better than your freak boyfriend does.”_

 

Oh god – he knocked his head back against the hard plaster, trying to dislodge the memory. He wanted to run for the shower again, he couldn’t bear to meet the worry in Hermione’s eyes, he battled the urge to hide under the bed, he felt like he was going to vomit-

 

“Check!” Malfoy said loudly, and Harry’s head cleared.

 

“Not for long,” Ron replied, directing one of his knights to go to the king’s rescue.

 

“Harry?” Hermione asked, sounding more worried than ever.

 

“No pain,” he reiterated more confidently, watching as Malfoy’s queen obliterated the knight in one fell swoop. The piece gave a little, theatrical yell as it shattered and Harry winced.

 

“What?”

 

“I just… I don’t think I really like chess, all that much.”

 

“If that’s because Ron never lets you win, you could play against me,” Hermione offered.

 

Harry shook his head; that wasn’t it. He didn’t quite know how to explain the wave of dislike for the game that had suddenly swept over him. “It’s a game of battle strategy and war tactics,” he started slowly, “which is all about sacrificing the pawns and the soldiers and the godfathers just to protect the king.”

 

“Oh, Harry…”

 

He realised what he had said and mentally cursed himself for the slip. “I know it wasn’t my fault, Hermione,” he pre-empted with a sigh. “This is a war and people die in wars. Being the guy with the crown – or, in reality, the scar – on his head wasn’t something that I chose. I wish more than anything that I wasn’t the person that this whole fight seems to centre around and that the people dying in defence of the Light side weren’t people that I know and care about. But if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else, and people would still be dying. At least this way I have the small comfort of knowing that I might be able to do something about it.”

 

“You’re talking about the prophecy, aren’t you?” Hermione said quietly. “Like some of those things you were saying earlier, about how you’re supposed to have a power that V-Voldemort doesn’t know about.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed.

 

“I thought the prophecy was destroyed before you had the chance to hear it?”

 

Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore had a copy, and he showed it to me.” He chose not to mention how frustrating it was that Dumbledore hadn’t told him earlier.

 

Hermione’s face displayed a nervous anxiety, as though she was longing to ask but was afraid to, expecting that he had been sworn to secrecy and wouldn’t tell her. Ron and Malfoy, he also noticed, had at some point become distracted from their game and were watching him intently, too.

 

What did it matter, really? He had pretty much told them the most crucial aspects of the prophecy in his outburst earlier that morning, and they seemed to have already come to the understanding that he was inexorably involved in this conflict. The prophecy just explained why.

 

“You’ll be in danger if I tell you,” he warned, “but then, just being around me puts you guys in danger and you have a right to know why that is exactly. So if you want to know…”

 

They nodded, words apparently beyond them at the moment.

 

He took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Here goes.” The words came to him easily, burned into his memory like no amount of studying revision material had ever achieved.

 

 _“‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_.’”

 

A few moments of silence.

 

“Well, that’s… interesting,” Malfoy said finally.

 

“What power?” Ron wondered out loud.

 

“Does it scare you, Harry?” Hermione asked.

 

“Interesting isn’t the word I would use, I have no idea, and I don’t think I could really be any more scared of him than I was already,” Harry responded matter-of-factly. “I knew he was an insane megalomaniac who wanted me dead, I just didn’t know that he had actually had a logical reason for it until now.”

 

“But now there’s so much added pressure on you to-” Hermione cut herself off, flushing. “Oh, I’m not really helping, am I?”

 

Harry shrugged. “You’re not saying anything that I don’t already know.” Essentially it boiled down to: the whole of the wizarding world was counting on him to destroy Voldemort, and if he failed Voldemort would win. Muggles would be enslaved, Muggle-borns would be terrorised, tyranny would replace democracy and all that was good in the world would become shadowed in darkness. The only upside (and it wasn’t much of one) was that at least he wouldn’t be alive to see it.

 

“So I suppose the _Prophet_ got the whole ‘Chosen One’ idea right, then,” Ron breathed. “Blimey.”

 

“Yeah, who would have guessed that one day they’d actually end up reporting something that had an element of truth to it,” Harry joked dryly. He really had no respect for the media anymore after all the rubbish they’d printed last year. They had proved that, far from having any decent principles governing their profession, they were completely under Fudge’s thumb and all too willing to pander to the whim of the public. He had a certain fondness for _The Quibbler_ , though. It was just like Luna – unsurprisingly, considering that her father was the editor – with all her bold unconventionality, frank honesty and quirky craziness.

 

He was surprised to realise in that moment that he missed her. She was like a breath of fresh air in his life; someone who seemed to understand him and what he was going through, who would never judge him and who somehow always knew just what to say – whether it was to break the tension, to provide a welcome distraction, to add a hint of light-heartedness to a situation, to point out the truth of something when no one else would, or to comfort him when he was grieving.

 

“Well, it is good to know that I wasn’t being a complete imbecile when I decided not to join the Death Eaters,” Malfoy remarked.

 

“What?” Harry said, bringing his attention back to the conversation. He was somewhat surprised that Malfoy would just come out and admit that joining the ranks of Voldemort’s followers had ever been on the table for him, although given his parentage Harry supposed it was rather self-evident. He wondered briefly what it might have been like if Malfoy _had_ become a Death Eater. They would be real enemies, then, on opposite sides of a war. Malfoy would have the Dark Mark… eventually he might even have become a murderer, although Harry couldn’t quite imagine him being capable of such an act – not since he had shown in his treatment of Harry that he was, in fact, capable of compassion.

 

“To be honest, I worried that I was making a mistake that a true Slytherin never would – refusing to join the side that was going to win this war in the end.”

 

 _That’s encouraging,_ Harry thought.

 

“But now there’s a chance,” Malfoy continued. “A very real chance that the Dark Lord will be defeated, so significant a chance that it is spoken of in prophecy! We know now that you could actually gain the victory in this, Potter – it’s not a hopeless cause. Shouldn’t you all be taking that as good news?”

 

“The prophecy doesn’t say that I’ll win for sure,” Harry pointed out. “It just says that one of us is going to kill the other, and that I have no choice but to fight him.”

 

“Potter, you were _always_ going to fight him. Hearing a prophecy wouldn’t have any effect on that, except to help you realise that you won’t be fighting him in vain.”

 

Harry frowned, not sure that he understood what Malfoy was getting at. “What do you mean?”

 

“Think about it, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes taking on that familiar gleam of sudden comprehension. “Voldemort killed your parents.”

 

What, did she think he had forgotten? “Yes, I’m aware of that.”

 

“He’s attacked you several times, he’s taken a lot of innocent lives, and he’s hurt people that you care about.”

 

Anger started boiling in the pit of his stomach. “I know.”

 

“He’s the reason why Sirius is gone.”

 

“Are you coming to a point here?” Harry growled, struggling to keep a lid on the emotions that were raging inside him.

 

“Think about what you’re feeling right now. Even if you had never heard that prophecy, after everything that Voldemort has done you would not be able to rest easy until he had been dealt with once and for all.”

 

“You want to fight him,” Malfoy said. “Not because some Seer said that it was your destiny, but because you are a good person who wants justice, and you’re not one to just sit back and wait for someone else to do it.”

 

“I think Hermione and Malfoy are right, Harry,” Ron added. “It’s who you are. Oh, and by the way, Malfoy…” He moved a piece on the chessboard. “Check mate.”

 

ooOOoo


	19. The Wonder of Flight

 

The next few days passed in relative peace for Harry. 

 

He was very conscious of the fact that they were all still treading on eggshells around him, but he knew they were making an effort to avoid making him uncomfortable and he only really had to deal with the full weight of their over-sensitivity and sympathetic glances at meal times. The rest of the day he would usually spend up in his room or relaxing outside in the garden, with Ron, Hermione and Malfoy keeping him company. They didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t very talkative, maintaining a casual banter among themselves and letting him join in or not as he felt like it. They did watch him carefully, but tried to be discreet about it, and knowing that they were just concerned for him made it easier to bear. Hermione, at least, stopped asking him whether he was okay every half an hour after that first day, and at times he was able to pretend that this was just like any normal summer holiday with his friends.

 

A few things reminded him that it wasn’t. Every morning, for example, Malfoy poured half a vial of some foul-tasting substance into his pumpkin juice and made sure that he drank all of it. Harry had given up fighting him over the ingestion of gross potions back at Privet Drive, but he’d hoped after Madam Pomfrey had healed all of his injuries that he wouldn’t have assault his taste buds like that anymore. Apparently, though, there was no quick spell that could reverse his drastic weight loss, so he was stuck with the potions until he made it back to within a healthy weight range.

 

And then there was the fact that he couldn’t seem to prevent the full-body flinch that happened instinctively when anyone touched him. He knew it was stupid, he _knew_ that when Hermione lightly placed her hand on his arm, or when Ron clapped him on the shoulder, or when Mrs Weasley moved to smooth out his collar, that they weren’t going to hurt him. He _knew_ that. And he’d never been this bad before; although physical contact had always made him mildly uncomfortable he was usually able to supress it and take the sentiment for what it was. But now he couldn’t help it. Even when he saw it coming and tried to brace himself for it, his body still wanted to recoil from the contact and the conflict between body and mind resulted in the flinch. Then would come the apologies, and the worried expressions, and the leaving of a wide berth around him for the next little while.

 

The flashes of memory that came upon him with no warning didn’t help matters, either.

 

He had yet to make it through a full night without waking from a nightmare in a cold sweat. Malfoy looked to be as tired as he was, but he never complained about the disruption of his sleep – he would just steadily talk Harry down from the heart-pounding panic and then give him a sip of Dreamless Sleep potion. He didn’t tell any of the others about the nightmares or ever bring them up again once the moment had passed, either, for which Harry was immensely grateful.

 

All in all, though, being at the Burrow even under the changed circumstances was infinitely better than life at Privet Drive had been.

 

The highlight for Harry came in the form of a miniature game of Quidditch, played outside over one of the fields on a pleasantly warm day that was complimented by a gentle breeze.

 

Hermione was reluctant about the idea at first, but Ginny had left to spend the afternoon at Dean’s house so for the teams to be even she had to play. They started with a few warm ups so that she would have the chance to get used to being on the broom. Ron flew alongside her to offer guidance, hints and tips and Harry noticed with some amusement that Hermione was giving Ron the sort of rapt attention that she usually afforded the professors at Hogwarts when they were teaching. Ron seemed to enjoy being the one with all the knowledge and expertise for a change.

 

“So do you still remember how to fly, Potter?” Malfoy asked, mounting his Nimbus 2001 and rising smoothly into the air until he was hovering a few feet above the ground.

 

“I reckon so,” Harry replied. Flying was as natural to him as breathing, but he hadn’t flown on his broomstick since Umbridge gave him a life-long Quidditch ban and locked his Firebolt in the dungeon. Having that taken away from him had made an already difficult year even harder and now it had been so long it almost felt surreal to have the chance to fly again.

 

“Come on, then,” Malfoy said. “What are you waiting for?”

 

Harry glided his fingers over the smooth, polished wood of the Firebolt’s handle. _Thanks, Sirius_ , he thought silently, letting himself feel the ache of loss for a few moments before setting it aside to focus on the here and now.

 

He mounted his broom, inhaled deeply, and then kicked off hard. He rocketed skywards, his broom angled almost vertically. He accelerated to the limit of the Firebolt’s speed capabilities, feeling the thrill of flight and the wind whipping through his hair, leaving the ground far below him along with all the stress and fear and hurt and nightmares that made up his existence. Up here there was nothing – no Dursleys, no war, no prophecy, no responsibilities. Just him and the sky. Freedom.

 

He pulled his broom into a backwards somersault, arcing in a great circle and then using his momentum to shoot forward horizontally. He imagined he was in pursuit of a particularly elusive snitch, diving and rolling and looping, banking sharply, pulling into a tight turn, suddenly switching to the opposite direction, gliding, spinning…  Living.

 

God, how he’d missed this.

 

He slowed to a stop, hundreds of feet in the air, and just paused, savouring the moment. The warmth of the sun, the beauty of the clouds, the sheer scope of the view. It was incredible.

 

Before too long, he remembered the people down below waiting for him to begin the game. With a degree of reluctance, Harry dipped the nose of his broom and dove for the ground, watching as everything seemed to rush up towards him, getting bigger and bigger – he was descending at a horrendous rate, the ground was only meters away – Hermione shrieked-

 

Harry pulled up at the last second, his toes skimming the grass as he gradually slowed to a smooth stop.

 

“Blimey, mate,” Ron exhaled, drawing up beside him. His expression was half awe, half grin. “Quidditch doesn’t do you justice. That was bloody brilliant!”

 

“That was dangerous!” Hermione squeaked, walking towards them in a strange sort of waddle with the broomstick still between her legs, grasping the handle in a white-knuckled grip.

 

“Nah, not for someone as skilled as Harry,” Ron scoffed. “You were really in your element, mate!”

 

Harry smiled, ruffling a hand through his windswept hair.

 

“There it is,” Malfoy said, gliding elegantly into place next to them.

 

“What?”

 

“The spark,” he replied simply, his lips lifting into his own little smile.

 

Harry didn’t quite know what he meant by that, but Malfoy didn’t seem inclined to explain it any further so Harry decided to let it be.

 

“Alright, so, two-on-two, all Chasers, one Quaffle,” Ron said, tossing the red ball into the air and catching it again. “Those two trees on the left of the field as goals for one team,” he gestured, “and the stumps on the right for the other. Fences as boundaries. First team to seven goals wins.”

 

They nodded their understanding, and Malfoy added, “So Potter and Granger versus myself and Weasley, then?”

 

Three surprised glances were aimed in his direction. Harry supposed that it _was_ a fair distribution of skill, but he wouldn’t have expected Malfoy to admit, even in this indirect manner, that out of the two of them Harry was the slightly better Quidditch player, or display a willingness to partner with Ron either for that matter. But then, Malfoy had done a great many things in the past month that Harry would never have expected from him – what was one more?

 

“Okay, then,” Ron said finally. “Malfoy and I will take the left goals. Toss-up between Harry and Malfoy, I’ll throw.”

 

They each swerved into position, Harry and Malfoy hovering two meters higher than Ron and facing each other across the space of a few broom-lengths.

 

“Ready,” Ron called. “Mark!”

 

The Quaffle shot up between them – they launched forward simultaneously– Ignoring the Quaffle, Harry swooped in front of Malfoy to force him to the side and then pulled a tight, vertical loop to snatch the red ball as gravity began to reclaim it – “Whoa!” Ron said, pulling hard to the side to avoid getting hit – then Harry shot away, pirouetting upright again and heading for the goals.

 

“Oh no you don’t, Potter!” Malfoy yelled, and Harry glanced behind to see that he was in hot pursuit, having taken the higher air with the probable intention of diving in front of Harry and cutting him off. To move higher would cost Harry speed, but he was far enough ahead that it wouldn’t matter and it would foil Malfoy’s plan – he nudged his broom into rising a few feet, glanced behind – he couldn’t see Malfoy-

 

The Quaffle was ripped from his hand as a streak of colour topped by platinum blonde shot up sharply from underneath him – to avoid a collision Harry was forced to flip backwards, and then the Quaffle was zipping back towards the other side of the field.

 

“Hermione, cut him off!” Harry called, seeing that she had trailed behind and was closer to left goals than anyone.

 

“Lean into the turn, remember!” Ron advised, and then slapped himself on the forehead as Hermione took his instruction, managed the turn and glided off quickly ahead of Malfoy.

 

Harry charged onward to come to Hermione’s aid, but she seemed to be doing okay – she had taken up position in front of the trees so that if Malfoy continued his direct course she would be able to block the throw, and had a look of resolute determination on her face (mixed in with a small dose of fear).

 

Malfoy let the Quaffle slip from his hand, almost as though conceding defeat, then with a powerful spin he slammed the bristle end of his broom into the ball, sending it shooting off at an angle that would miss the goals by a mile – but Ron was suddenly there, snatching the ball out of the sky and launching it at the goals – Hermione was surprised by the move, tried clumsily to change her defence, but the ball shot through her fingers.

 

“Goal one for the Weasleys!” Ron crowed, doing a loop de loop of victory.

 

“For the Malfoys, you mean!”

 

“How about you go with ‘The RonCos’,” Harry suggested with a smirk.

 

The two looked at each other, shrugged, and said “Goal one for the RonCos!”

 

Harry laughed at them, almost expecting a spontaneous high-five to occur, and when Malfoy looked over at him with an expression of pleased surprise Harry made use of the distraction, diving to scoop up the Quaffle and then shooting off for the other side of the pitch.

 

Yelling in mock outrage, Ron barrelled after him, trying to make up the lost ground. Malfoy’s broom was faster, though, steadily gaining, and Harry decided that since he didn’t want to see a repeat of the last out-manoeuvre he was going to have a bit of fun with them. They wanted the Quaffle, after all, and he had it. Well, they were just going to have to come and get it, then.

 

With his new strategy in mind, Harry banked hard right, rocketed upwards and then dived towards Hermione. The abrupt reverse in direction caught the RonCos off guard and they were yards behind; Harry swerved tightly around his teammate and spoke quietly in her ear as he passed. He glanced back to see her nod of understanding and then he was ploughing up the field again.

 

Malfoy was soon on his tail, with Ron pacing up ahead to block his way. Incorporating all the moves he had learned during the match in his second year where Dobby’s tampered bludger had been ruthlessly chasing him around the pitch, Harry led Malfoy on a merry little dance. His flight path was erratic, darting this way and that, spinning, twisting, diving in one second only to shoot up ten yards the next, letting the Quaffle become tantalisingly within reach and then denying Malfoy in the last moment, seemingly going nowhere but all the while inching closer and closer to his destination. At any and all heights and angles Harry feinted at the goals, causing Ron to swerve nervously back and forth, watching him closely.

 

In a dizzying spin that hurtled upwards, Harry made his final run. Reaching the highest level he had ascended to in this game, Harry stopped and shoved out his arms in an explosive throw that would have entered the goals at an angle ten degrees shy of vertical, but Ron was there to block it and it didn’t matter anyway because what they hadn’t seen was that, half way through his spin, Harry had let the Quaffle escape his grip. Gravity in control, the ball had dropped like a stone, and Hermione – in place just as he’d instructed, virtually unnoticed and not deemed a threat – had caught it.

 

Before they knew what had happened, Hermione had thrown the Quaffle at the lower, unguarded section of the goals and it sailed through unhindered.

 

“Yes!” Harry cried, pumping his fist in the air.

 

“I did it!” Hermione squealed. “I actually did it! Ron, did you see? I scored a goal!”

 

Ron looked torn for a moment, and then he broke into a wide grin. “Good job, ‘Mione. We’ll make a Quidditch star of you yet.”

 

She beamed and Ron flew over to give her a one-armed hug.

 

“Alright, alright, you’ve had your minute of fame,” Malfoy said, moving to reclaim the Quaffle from the ground. “But don’t break out your victory-party butterbeer just yet, because the RonCos are going to _win_ this match!”

 

Ron hastily arranged his features into a more competitive expression. “That’s right!”

 

“Bring it on,” Harry said.

 

And with that the game burst into motion again.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

 

He had always enjoyed playing Quidditch, of course, but there was something so unique in this place and in this moment. There was no crowd to perform for, no jeering and cheering, no feeling that the respect of his House mates was riding on the outcome of the match, no pressure to uphold the Slytherin pride, no motive to use dirty tactics, no fear that his father would be disappointed in him if he lost. There was no clear cut idea of success and failure either, unlike in real games where as Seeker he either caught the Snitch, or he didn’t. Right here, right now, there was just the nice day, the joy of flying and some friendly rivalry.

 

It didn’t even seem to matter to anyone who won, as though they would all be happy for the other team if they were the ones who ended up being victorious. Weasley, for example, shared in Granger’s excitement over every good play that she made, even if it was to the RonCo’s detriment, and she in turn expressed her admiration whenever Weasley managed to prevent her team from scoring a goal or scored one himself. For Draco’s part, he was surprised to find that just seeing the fire that had returned to Potter’s eyes to burn so brightly felt better than any Slytherin victory ever had.

 

The teams were currently on six-all, so this next round would be the decider. Weasley was in possession of the Quaffle, zig-zagging his way up the pitch with Granger following quite adeptly. Draco was rather amazed at how much progress she had made within one afternoon, going from being terrified floating at one foot above ground to chasing Weasley at high speed with relative confidence… and he rather thought Weasley’s support and encouragement had a lot to do with it. The question of whether they were a couple yet or not appeared briefly in his mind, but then he saw that Potter was moving in rapidly from the side to intercept the Quaffle, and immediately abandoned his musings in favour of shooting forward to back up his team mate.

 

Drawing up close on Weasley’s left, Draco cut smoothly in front of Potter’s path and grinned at him. Potter’s brow creased and he rose higher, trying to go above him, but Draco rose, too. Potter kept trying, and Draco blocked his movements each time, noting peripherally that they were coming closer and closer to the RonCos goals. And then Potter abruptly vanished – Draco scanned the area frantically – Potter shot up from Weasley’s right, Quaffle in hand.

 

“Thanks for the move, Malfoy!” Potter yelled cheerfully, flipping in mid-air and hurtling back in the other direction. Malfoy moved instantly to follow, but Granger was in the way, swerving in front of him to hinder every move he made. He was at least relieved to see that Weasley was able to avoid her in a smooth arc and charge after Potter, but then Draco decided that this was the crux of the game and he wasn’t going to miss it – he forced his broom down 90 degrees and dove for the ground – Granger tried to follow but she wasn’t quite that brave yet and had to descend at a shallower angle – he bypassed her easily, pulled upright and rocketed for the other end of the field.

 

Weasley was right alongside Potter now (Draco absently realised that Potter wasn’t using the Firebolt’s full speed capabilities to be fair about the difference in brooms) and made a lurching grab for the Quaffle. Potter rolled, coming up on Ron’s other side – Weasley tried to grab for it again and Potter just repeated the move in reverse – Draco thought he might even have heard a chuckle come from the black-haired boy – Draco himself was close now, approaching from below – Potter rolled for a third time and at the point where he was upside down Draco was able to snatch the Quaffle out of his hands.

 

It was Draco’s turn to laugh now, and he held up the ball triumphantly for just a second – only to have it ripped from his fingers by a powerful blow from the bristle end of Potter’s broom as he pulled one of the tightest spins Draco had ever seen. Granger was there to catch it and she twisted away from Weasley’s attempts to get it back, throwing it to Potter when Weasley became too difficult to dodge. Draco missed the chance to intercept it by inches, overreaching and unbalancing himself so he spiralled out of control for those few crucial moments – Granger was blocking Weasley – Potter shot ahead and cocked his arm back, preparing the throw that would win him the game – he glanced behind for a split second to check their positions, making sure he was clear-

 

He froze, eyes caught on something behind them. Colour drained from his face, his arm fell limply to his side and the Quaffle slipped unnoticed from his numb fingers.

 

One look at his expression and Draco had completely forgotten about the game, turning quickly to see what Potter was staring at. His mind rushed through the possible options, running from Death Eaters to Dementors to Dursleys, and so for a moment he was thrown by the sight of a figure with bright purple robes and long white hair standing at the edge of the field.

 

“Professor Dumbledore?” Granger said. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

 

“Order stuff?” Weasley guessed uncertainly.

 

Draco looked at Potter to see that his face held a mixture of shock, shame and even a trace of fear. All the joy and excitement that the game had evoked in him had been obliterated in one fell blow, the fire in his eyes snuffed out like a candle in a sudden draught.

 

Potter started floating down to ground level. The others followed behind him, quiet in the wake of his apparent dread. Once their feet hit the grass they dismounted to walk the rest of the way and finally came to stand in front of Dumbledore.

 

Potter, Draco noticed, wouldn’t look up to meet those piercing blue eyes.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said cordially. He received two tentative nods in response. “Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter… it is good to see you well, although I admit I was surprised to discover that you had relocated here.” In a subtle shift, an edge of sternness entered his tone. “I had thought that I had spoken quite clearly when I explained why it was necessary for the both of you to remain at Number Four Privet Drive this summer.”

 

Potter stared resolutely at his shoes as he answered quietly, “Yes, sir, you did.”

 

Dumbledore nodded. “So you can well imagine my shock when I returned from an important trip to discover that the wards I put in place for your protection had fallen and you were both gone.”

 

 _So much for Dumbledore being omniscient,_ Draco thought. “How did you know where we were then?” he asked out loud.

 

“I encountered Madam Pomfrey in the Hogwarts owlery, about to post a letter addressed to you at the Burrow, Harry,” Dumbledore explained. “A letter which, I might point out, would have led the Death Eaters straight here if they had intercepted it en route.” He pulled the envelope, with trademark Hogwarts green ink and the wax seal crest, from an inside pocket of his robes and held it out.

 

Harry took it, still without lifting his eyes from their studious inspection of his shoes. It was probably their O.W.L results, Draco realised, but while Granger’s eyes gleamed for a moment with anticipation, Harry didn’t seem interested. He just fiddled with the edges of the parchment.

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, a frown creasing those usually-jovial features. “Harry, look at me, please.”  He did, finally, but the movement was loaded with reluctance. “I must ask you why you have gone against my instructions in this matter.”

 

A pause. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“That is not a reason, Harry.”

 

His gaze dropped again and Draco was forcefully reminded of the way Potter looked when he was standing in front of his uncle. “I… I just don’t like being there, with them. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

 

A truth, of sorts, but far from the whole story. Draco knew that Potter didn’t want Dumbledore to know about the abuse but he didn’t understand why. Dumbledore and Potter had always been close (Draco had always blamed Potter’s celebrity status for the Headmaster’s special treatment of him). Admittedly their relationship had appeared to falter somewhat last year, but then Dumbledore had come to Potter’s rescue at the Ministry and, if the newspaper article that covered the incident was anything to go by, he had saved Potter from the Dark Lord in a most dramatic and spectacular fashion, which had to go quite a way to repair the relationship. Besides, Dumbledore did seem to genuinely care for Potter. Even placing him with the Dursleys – which had turned out to be a colossal mistake – had been done with the intention of keeping Potter safe.

 

Certainly, Dumbledore would be upset to hear how Potter had been treated – but upset with the Dursleys, surely, not with Potter. Potter was the innocent victim in this. Dumbledore couldn’t think worse of him for it, he couldn’t blame him. So why wouldn’t Potter just be honest?

 

“I see,” Dumbledore said heavily. “Well, Molly and Arthur have assured me that they do not mind your presence here, but I am surprised at you, Harry, nevertheless. I would not have thought you would be one to risk all your friends’ lives simply because you do not wish to spend a few weeks in the company of people you do not like very much. Especially after leading them into a trap not all that long ago, which could have resulted in even more deaths than it did.”

 

Potter flinched at the reminder of his godfather and Draco felt anger boil up inside of him. That had been a low blow.

 

“I am very disappointed in you, Harry. But what is done is done. We shall just have to live with the consequences of your actions.”

 

Draco was struggling to contain himself. How dare Dumbledore lay this at Potter’s feet? How dare he insinuate that Harry was a selfish git who didn’t care about his friends? It hadn’t even been his decision to leave Privet Drive and come here – Draco was the one who had torn down the wards, but Potter was taking responsibility for it anyway.

 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said again.

 

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, all too often apologies don’t teach anyone anything.”

 

Potter’s breath caught and his eyes went wide, but Dumbledore wasn’t looking at him – he went to reach into his pocket again, starting to say, “Well, speaking of Sirius, I have here his-” but as he raised his hand Potter jerked back with a whimper of distress, arms going up instinctively to protect his head from a blow.

 

They all stared at him, but Draco was the fastest to recover, glancing up at the sky and then saying, “This isn’t the season for swooping, Potter, but that magpie did look particularly nasty, I’ll grant you that.”

 

The others looked up, too, Granger and Weasley almost seeming as though they believed the story he’d made up on the spot – even though they had to have known what had really happened, having witnessed similar occurrences numerous times over the past few days. By happy coincidence, there was a distant speck in the sky that could have been the offending bird after making a speedy exit, which led credence to his cover. Potter flashed him a grateful expression.

 

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore went on, “a few weeks ago we came across Sirius Black’s Last Will and Testament, which I have here with me. He named you his sole beneficiary, Harry.”

 

There was a pause in which Potter didn’t seem to know what to say. “Oh,” he offered.

 

“This means, naturally, that Sirius’ monetary assets have been added to your bank account at Gringotts, and that you are now the owner of all his personal belongings, including Number 12 Grimmauld Place.”

 

Draco raised his eyebrows. As the last of the Potters, which was an ancient pureblood family, Harry would have already inherited a significant amount of money from his parents, and now a third of the Black family wealth had been passed down to him as well? Potter had to be nearly as rich as the Malfoys! And Grimmauld Place… Draco had never known the address, but in context he deduced that it must be the Ancestral Black Family Mansion, which was purported to be nearly as impressive as Malfoy Manor but, according to Draco’s mother, with Darker decor.

 

“Shouldn’t the mansion go to Aunt Bellatrix or my mother?” Draco wondered out loud. They were the last of the Black bloodline now, after all, and pureblood tradition dictated that such things stay within the family. Potter, godson as he may be, was not a direct blood relation.

 

Potter’s eyes flashed to him, snapping in anger. “No,” he growled.

 

Draco was taken aback. “I didn’t mean any-”

 

“I will NOT let my godfather’s murderer live in his house!”

 

“There is an easy way to test ownership-” Dumbledore tried.

 

“If she so much as tries to set a _foot_ in Grimmauld Place, I’ll-”

 

Dumbledore, abandoning attempts to explain, waved his wand and a sharp _crack_ announced the arrival of an old, ugly house-elf.

 

“Him, too!” Harry yelled upon sighting the creature. “That treacherous little traitor-” He lunged forward, Granger grabbing his arm to hold him back only to have to enlist Weasley’s assistance because Potter was fighting her furiously.

 

“KREACHER WON’T, WON’T, WON’T!”

 

Draco blinked, heedless of the chaos that had erupted around him. “Hey, I know you. You’re that odd little elf who turned up at my house last Christmas!” It had been the strangest thing – the elf just appeared out of nowhere saying that his master had sent him away and he had come to serve his true mistresses. Aunt Bellatrix usually enjoyed torturing house elves almost as much as she did Muggles, and Draco’s parents tolerated yet distained them, but with this particular house elf they had nothing but easy tasks, kind words and gentle care. They had instructed Draco to treat him similarly, so he had, but a few weeks later without a word of explanation the strange house elf was gone again.

 

The house elf paused mid-tantrum and looked at him with wide, bulbous eyes. “Master Draco Malfoy sir!” he exclaimed. “What is you doing here with Mudbloods and blood traitors and the nasty horrible Potter brat?” He seemed suddenly hopeful. “Has the nasty horrible Potter brat agreed to pass Mastership of Kreacher over to the noble house of Malfoy?”

 

“So Harry _is_ your master,” Dumbledore said, though no one was listening to him. “And thus Grimmauld Place belongs to Harry also. Sirius obviously knew what he was doing when he arranged his will, then. That simplifies matters.”

 

“You two know each other?” Potter asked, with a degree of deadly calm that somehow felt more threatening than his outburst of anger had.

 

“We’ve met,” Draco said, wondering why it mattered. His mind began to put together the pieces. Kreacher’s master, who had ‘sent him away’, must have been Sirius Black. Bellatrix and Narcissa were the only other living Blacks, so Kreacher had come to them. They had been nice to him…

 

“Met,” Potter repeated. “Meaning you were there when this _thing_ was ratting out my godfather to the Death Eaters. When they were planning his murder. When they were telling _it_ to betray him and lie to me so that we’d fall into Voldemort’s trap. You _knew_!”

 

“No, I didn’t,” Draco said, scrambling to follow what had happened. The Dark Lord had given Potter a vision of his godfather being tortured in the Department of Mysteries to lure Potter there, Draco knew that much. But how had the Dark Lord known who to use as the bait? A house elf couldn’t betray his master’s secrets, but shared affection between a godfather and his godson would not have come under that shroud of secrecy. So was that the information Bellatrix had been trying to glean from Kreacher that Christmas?

 

And then Potter had been caught in Umbridge’s office, trying to contact someone – ostensibly Dumbledore, but logic dictated it had actually been Sirius instead.  Sirius, although not captured or in trouble at the time, had obviously not answered… was that where Kreacher had come in? By keeping Sirius distracted, or directly lying to Potter about his whereabouts? It seemed so. Kreacher must have known the potential consequences of his actions and that he was essentially working against his master, but then it wasn’t completely unheard of behaviour for a house elf.  Dobby had managed to disrupt Draco’s father’s plans for Hogwarts in their second year, after all, by warning Potter about the plot.

 

Recalling the incident now, Draco saw it in a very different light. Where before he had considered it a separation of the wheat from the chaff that was long overdue, he now realised that it was nothing but intent to murder. What did it say about Lucius that he had been trying to start a massacre of innocent school children? And what did it say about Draco that, at the time, he had wanted to see it happen, even without knowing who was behind it?

 

Maybe the glare that Potter was currently levelling at him was well deserved, just not for the reason he was currently thinking.

 

“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” Draco reiterated. “My mother tried to make sure that I never became involved in my father’s activities, and she kept me away from my aunt as much as possible. All I knew was that there was a new elf in the house for a while, and then he left. I didn’t even know who he belonged to.”

 

“House elves shouldn’t belong to anyone-” Granger began in an impassioned voice, but Weasley leaned over and quietly told her, “Now isn’t the time,” and she reluctantly held off on her tirade.

 

“Kreacher is wanting to belong to Master Draco Malfoy sir,” the house elf said, folding his arms. “Not the nasty horrible Potter brat.”

 

“I don’t want you to belong to me either,” Potter muttered.

 

“Harry, bear in mind that Kreacher has been residing in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year,” Dumbledore said. “A transfer of ownership into another family isn’t advisable right now; no slight intended to you, of course, Mr Malfoy. But if your aunt…”

 

“I understand, sir,” Draco said. This elf, it seemed, had caused enough trouble for the Order even when sworn to obey one of its members. If he were to actually belong to the Malfoys or the Lestranges, it could become a significant advantage for the Death Eaters because he would no longer be under oath to keep what he overheard from the meetings a secret.

 

Potter did not look happy. Draco thought that if he were in his position, he probably would have presented Kreacher with clothes rather than keep him around, but he knew that Potter would act in the Light’s interests and not his own.

 

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I want you out of my sight. Go clean Grimmauld Place – I have no intention of ever going there again if I can at all help it. But don’t touch Sirius’ room, understand?”

 

Kreacher bowed his wizened head, the gesture as mocking as a house elf could make it. “Is that all, Master?” he croaked.

 

“Yes,” Potter said shortly. “In the unlikely event that I ever have need of you for another reason, I’ll call. Until then, stay there and do not talk to anyone.”

 

Master and house elf glared at each other with similar expressions of loathing, and then Kreacher Apparated away to do as instructed.

 

The hostility faded from Potter’s eyes; he just looked tired. “Sorry, Malfoy,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

 

Draco shrugged it off. He figured that, with everything he had gone through, Potter was entitled to have a few emotional outbursts. “I’ve been accused of worse,” he said simply. In fact, it felt almost strange to be accused of something he _hadn’t_ done for once. “And it wasn’t too farfetched an assumption, considering what I git I was last year. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

 

Potter nodded.

 

To Draco’s immense irritation, he saw that Dumbledore was looking between the both of them, his eyes twinkling madly. The manipulative old coot! Draco had suspected that the meddlesome Headmaster had an ulterior motive when he’d sent him to live at Privet Drive and he severely disliked being played for a fool.

 

But he wasn’t acting decently towards Potter because Dumbledore wanted him to. There were extenuating circumstances that Dumbledore had no idea about or any influence on – like how Potter had risked his life and health to save him (twice!), or the fact that Potter was less pampered and less full of himself than Draco had always thought, or the way that the abusive Dursleys had brought out a protective streak in Draco that he’d never known existed, or how it had turned out that Potter wasn’t so bad to hang around after all, or that Draco had discovered how much better it felt to treat people well and gain their friendship instead of acting all superior and insulting to offend and alienate them.

 

He refused to believe that he was having his strings pulled by Dumbledore. He made his own choices, so the old wizard had no right to twinkle at him like that.

 

“Don’t you have somewhere important to be, Headmaster?” Draco asked pointedly. He had outstayed his welcome.

 

The infernal twinkle in those blue eyes didn’t vanish. “Indeed I do,” he said. “And so I shall take my leave of you. Please thank your mother for her hospitality, Mr Weasley. Take care, children.”

 

He strode away, ostentatiously-coloured robes billowing, then reached the Apparation point and disappeared into thin air without a sound.

 

Potter exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. But the joy from their Quidditch game didn’t return.

 

ooOOoo


	20. Blood Traitors

 

Late in the afternoon, after shooing out the last of the customers and starting the procedure of closing up shop, a pretty witch dressed in magenta robes suddenly screamed.

 

In a flash, two identical wizards with flaming red hair were at her side, with their wands out and their eyes scanning the Alley for threats.

 

“Verity-” one of them started.

 

“-what is it?” the other said.

 

“A rat!” she shrieked, sparing a second to point to the offending creature before ducking behind one of the young men for protection.

 

The Weasley twins exchanged a glance loaded with relief, exasperation and amusement. Given the current state of the wizarding world, they had naturally assumed the worst. A rat was nothing in comparison to the truly terror-inducing people and creatures out there; but then, everyone was entitled to their phobias.

 

The rat was already high-tailing it out of there but Fred cast a Repelling charm after it anyway, speeding it along its journey, while George turned to comfort the scared woman.

 

“Don’t worry-” he said, putting an arm around her trembling shoulders.

 

“-it’s gone now,” Fred assured her. It had vanished around the corner of another building and was likely halfway down into the sewers by now.

 

“It can’t hurt you,” George reaffirmed.

 

She smiled tremulously at them. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I just really, _really_ don’t like rats.”

 

“Did your older brother Transfigure your teddy bear-”

 

“-or your doll-”

 

“-into a rat when you were younger or something?” they asked. She frowned slightly, not understanding.

 

“Because that sort of thing has been known to-”

 

“-induce long-lasting-”

 

“-fear in some people.”

 

“Our little Ronnikins, for example-”

 

“-can’t stand spiders anymore-”

 

“-since he took exception to cuddling one-”

 

“-a number of years ago.”

 

She looked at them with an expression torn between disapproval and amusement, finally giving in with a laugh. “You two must have spent years terrorising your family with all number of pranks until you transformed your talent for trouble into a lucrative business idea.”

 

“Terrorising?” Fred asked, pointing to himself with an air of innocence and mild hurt that she could even think such a thing about them. “No, certainly not.”

 

“Entertaining, more like,” George said.

 

“Their lives would have been utterly boring-”

 

“-if we hadn’t been there to spice things up a little for them.”

 

“And now you’re trying to do the same for the rest of the wizarding world?” she suggested.

 

“Precisely,” they answered together, beaming at her.

 

She laughed again. “Well, I think you’re doing a great job. You give people a reason to smile in these dark days, and a chance to laugh when there is precious little else to laugh about.”

 

They blushed at the praise, and she smiled. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

 

“Goodbye, fair maiden,” Fred said, with a flourish and a bow.

 

“Until we meet again, dear lady,” George added, sweeping up her hand to kiss it lightly, eliciting a giggle.

 

“Bye Mr Weasley, Mr Weasley.” She nodded to both of them and exited the shop. Two paces from the entrance, she twisted on the spot, Disapparating.

 

They closed and warded the door behind her. After what had happened to Ollivander and Florean Fortescue – not to mention all the worried reminders from their parents – they were careful to take every precaution to protect themselves and their store.

 

“Looks like we sold out of Pygmy Puffs again,” George observed as he idly tossed a specialised Shield Hat onto each of the top shelves. These hats, rather than extending a human-shaped shield around the wearer, were designed to protect the joke products from thieves, vandalism, or magical catastrophe exploding out from the back work room if an experiment were to ever go wrong.

 

“And the Nosebleed Nougat,” Fred added, flicking his wand to silence and still the attention-drawing products displayed in the left window.

 

George eyed the piles of boxes critically, even as he silently cast _Nox_ at the large, floating globe that served as the shop’s primary light source. The gentle glow from the candles was enough to see by. “The other Skiving Snackboxes are running low, too,” he noted. “It’s only a few weeks before the school term starts up again, so-”

 

“-the students are all starting to stock up,” Fred surmised.

 

George nodded. “We should create double the quantity next time.”

 

“And bump up the price by a few knuts.”

 

“The Muggle magic tricks might sell a bit better if we put them on sale next week for half pr…” George trailed off, distracted by something unseen. Subconsciously, his grip tightened on his wand.

 

“What-” Fred began to ask, but then he felt it too. A change in the air; magic slowly building, but it wasn’t his magic, and it wasn’t George’s either.

 

“Fred, just a hunch here, but I think we should-”

 

“ _Duck!”_ Fred chimed in, and they both dropped flat to the ground just as there was an almighty _CRASH_!

 

Their shop front windows exploded inwards, shards of glass and shreds of a “U-NO-POO” advertising poster streaking over their heads to pepper the back walls.

 

As the debris rained down they didn’t dare the glance up, but from his vantage point Fred saw a rat dart past across the floor in front of him. A very familiar looking rat, and likely the same one that had frightened Verity. One that had an oddly silvery left paw, which he was certain had once been missing a toe. Ron’s old pet rat. Scabbers. Also known as-

 

The rat began to transform right before their eyes – the twins had heard the story but they’d never seen it themselves – they leapt to their feet, wands at the ready-

 

“Peter Pettigrew,” George spat.

 

The small, balding man with a twitchy nose and a silver hand stood before them, leering. “Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t the twin Weasel brats: Fred and George.”

 

“ _I’m_ Fred,” Fred said automatically, noticing that Pettigrew had glanced at each of them in turn when he’d said their names, and he had gotten it the wrong way round. “Honestly, you lived in our house for nearly thirteen years and you still can’t tell the difference between us?” The fact that their identical appearance even confused their own mother sometimes was irrelevant.

 

Pettigrew grinned foully. “In a few minutes it won’t matter. Neither of your bodies will be recognisable by the time we’re done with you.” Behind him, six more figures in Death Eater robes and masks stepped through the broken window.

 

The twins looked at each other, both thinking the same thought. _Oh, crap._

“Fred and George Weasley,” Pettigrew began formally, as though he were the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot at trial. “His Lordship, the wise and powerful Dark Lord whose name is too sacred to be spoken aloud, has denounced you as Blood Traitors. For the crimes of advocating for Muggle rights, for associating with Muggles and Mudbloods, for slander and disrespect to the Dark Lord, for open defiance and most especially for harbouring His Lordship’s most hated enemy, the Weasley clan has been sentenced to die.” The grin returned. “And we shall take great pleasure in carrying out that sentence here tonight. Welcome to the end of the line, boys.”

 

The Death Eaters all raised their wands.

 

Identical sets of blue eyes locked on each other, saying everything that needed to be said in a split second. They didn’t want it to be a goodbye, but they knew that with these odds it could well be. They weren’t going out without a fight though. Nobody messed with Gred and Forge and got away easy.

 

“Now!” they yelled together.

 

George threw up a Protego – mentally thanking Harry for the excellent training and practice they’d received in the DA – and multi-coloured curses splayed off to the sides. Fred _Accio_ -d two sets of defensive clothing, tossing a hat, cloak, and gloves to his brother and pulling on his own.

 

George dropped the shield, Fred spun and swiped a stack of Giant Exploding Snap cards from a nearby shelf. He flung them in a spray that detonated on impact – some of the Death Eaters yelped as masks were singed and robes were set on fire. They distracted themselves by hastily shooting out jets of cold water; George used the opportunity to throw a handful of green gunk at their feet which swiftly grew and deepened into a Portable Swamp, sucking them into the quagmire.

 

“Avada Kedavra!” one yelled even as his feet were beginning to sink. George flung himself to the side – it missed by inches.

 

“Oi!” Fred’s heart was pounding as though he had been the one to almost get hit, except it was worse than that because he was terrified of losing his brother, his other half. Fear wasn’t helpful right now, though, so he seized upon his fury instead. How _dare_ they try to A.K. his twin! “Take that, you bastard!” He shot a _Furnunculus_ – the inspiration for their latest Snackbox ‘Buttermilk Boils’ – straight between the offender’s eyes. The grown man yowled like a baby.

 

“Lacuna Confundus!” George gasped from his knees, swishing his wand to include all the Death Eaters in the spell. Fred recognised it as a charm they had modified to create joke Spell-Checking quills – it muddled words.

 

“Av-” one started, but as the yellow light struck him the words came out garbled: “Abra kedabra! Avendi kebabnas!”

 

“Impe-” tried another “-Impertinent! Impopsticles! Inteferinus!”

 

“Cr-” snarled the big one who had nearly killed George “-Crabcakes! Crescendo!  Creepio!”

 

Fred snorted with amusement, only to have to drop to the floor to avoid a flash of red light that broiled overhead. Non-verbal spells were still effective it seemed, and one of them had figured it out. A few moments later another had discovered a way to send himself shooting upwards and free of the swamp, and the others soon followed. They were wobbling to get their balance on the solid ground again, though-

 

“Expelliarmus!” Fred and George shouted in unison. Enemy wands were tossed by magic in all directions. For good measure, George kicked over a few bins of their trick wands so that scrambling Death Eaters picked up the wrong ones and had them either vanish in a puff of purple smoke, turn into rubber chickens or start beating them violently around the head.

 

There was a sudden bright flash of light and George yelped, his face sprayed with blood. Fred sent him a panicked look loaded with anxious, inarticulate inquiry-

 

“Just a cut on the cheek!” his twin called to him, a hand lifting for a moment to finger the wound. “Nearly got my ear, though-” He scowled, shooting off a retaliatory spell: “Diffindo!”

 

It was the offending Death Eater’s turn to yelp as George’s spell sliced through his mask and actually did take off his ear.

 

“See how you like it!” George said.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Fred saw a rat scurry past them, obviously trying to trap them between two lines of fire – _Oh, no, you don’t_ , he thought, and cast a complicated little involuntary animate-to-animate transfiguration spell that would have made McGonagall proud (especially as he wasn’t using cream cakes as the go-between or trying it out on first-year students). The rat promptly turned into a little canary bird which tweeted indignantly but for the moment was unable to change back.

 

While Fred was pre-occupied, a Death Eater saw his chance to fire off a jet of black light. With all the skills and accuracy of a Gryffindor Beater, George snatched a box off a shelf and used it to knock an Aviatomobile (inspired by their father’s Flying Ford Anglia) that hovered nearby into an intercept course that collided neatly with the curse. The car turned to stone instantly and shattered on the floor as gravity reclaimed it – which was a sad loss of 3 sickles and 11 knuts but succeeded in the aim of absorbing the curse and saving Fred’s life; a far greater destiny for the little toy than providing an eight-year-old boy with a few hours of fun play time before undoubtedly ending up broken and forgotten.

 

The foiled Death Eater snarled and stormed forward – only to have a large cauldron-full of bright pink gunk thrown in his face. His eyes rolled back into his head, he dropped to the floor and started to scream.

 

“Was that-?”

 

“Our first batch of the DayDream potion that didn’t quite have the result we wanted? Yes.”

 

George grimaced. They’d tried a mouthful each on themselves and ended up trapped in their worst nightmare for half an hour… but if he’d wish it on anyone, these Death Eaters were top of the list. “Good one,” he said.

 

“Avando Kebana!” shouted one of their attackers – it wasn’t Pimpleman or Earless or Canaryworm or Sandman. This one had managed to come off unscathed so far, but he obviously wasn’t one of the brightest; he was wielding a rubber chicken and had apparently forgotten that verbal spells were currently useless. It was almost disappointingly easy for Fred to bind him up with a quick _Incarcerous_ and use a combination of levitation and banishing spells to punt him out the broken window into the deserted cobblestone street.

 

Meanwhile, George had somehow plastered a Magical Moustache Miracle Stubble Grow product onto another Death Eater’s forehead – the scalded cheek, which bore evidence to the fact that his mask had superheated earlier and required removing, was swiftly covered over from a vast growth of hair that soon overwhelmed his entire face and just kept growing. He tried to claw it out of his eyes so he could see, but Fred stepped in and poured a bottle of Supernatural Glue (“impossible to unstick for 24 hours”) over his head. Hands, hair and face were stuck together within seconds. The Death Eater yelled and cursed his fury at the situation, but what they were certain were intended to be some truly foul swear words, which would undoubtedly send the Weasleys’ mother into an apoplectic fit if her children were caught saying them, came out as “fairy floss” and “custard” instead.

 

The twins laughed at his predicament–

 

Until a bolt of magic hit Fred square in the face. He shrieked, hands flying up to clap over his eyes even as he crumpled to his knees.

 

George dropped down beside him instantly, trying to put his hands away to see what had happened. “Fred?!”

 

“It _hurts,_ George, my eyes, _oh god,_ make it stop!”

 

George scrambled for the answers – his eyes – what curse affected the eyes? Were they itchy? Had they melted in their sockets? Or were they just in pain, like the Cruciatus, no visible damage? The eyes, eyes – an image flashed to the forefront of his mind: a dragon catching a spell in the eyes, thrashing around in wild pain and nearly trampling Victor Krum – Conjunctivitus, that was it!

 

Purple flames flashed by his ear and George suddenly remembered that the battle wasn’t over. If they hadn’t been wearing the Shield gear some of the hexes of the past minute – eternity – would have hit them for sure. Luckily, the more powerful (and deadly) spells that the Shields would not block successfully were a lot harder to perform nonverbally. But as these Death Eaters seemed determined to prove, harder did not mean impossible.

 

George cast around for an idea – Fred’s screams were distracting him, tearing him apart – he caught sight of the Reusable Hangman game sets and _Accio_ -d the little figures. As they zipped through the air toward him he _Engorgio_ -d them and cast _Piertotum Locomotor_ which reanimated them to do his bidding. “Defend us!” he ordered.

 

They moved to encircle the twins protectively, taking hits from various spells that either had no effect, as they were intended only for humans, or were destructive and yet because the hangmen were charmed to be reusable they quickly repaired themselves just like wizard chess pieces. George had no illusions that it would last longer than a few moments but he hoped the brief reprieve would be enough.

 

“Fred, calm down, I’m right here, just let me get a look-”

 

“It _hurts,_ ” Fred gasped out, one of his hands flailing until it was able to take a tight fistful of George’s shirt. Knuckles turned white. “Make it stop.”

 

“I will,” George promised. “Just let me see what’s wrong.”

 

With a tremendous effort, Fred pulled his other hand away from his eyes. They were an angry red, swollen, leaking tears freely, and every time Fred tried to blink he winced in pain. The Conjunctivitus curse, it had to be.

 

“Conjuncto Relievium,” George cast gently.

 

Fred’s eyes cleared – and then widened- “Look out!”

 

Fred flung himself over his brother to pin him to the floor and a blasting curse narrowly missed them, blowing up the stand of Edible Dark Marks instead. As sickness-inducing candy rained over their heads, Fred rolled off onto his knees and shot off a _Reducto_ of his own. It blew up the charred stumps that had once been hangmen and peppered the Death Eaters with a combination of hot coal and sharp splinters.

 

“Fred, I think it is time that we-”

 

“-call out the big guns,” Fred agreed. Also known as: Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs.

 

They _Accio_ -d the closest Deflagration Deluxe packages, quickly cast the activation spell holding their intended targets securely in their minds as they did so, and then sat back to – literally – watch the fireworks.

 

The explosion of colour and sound was magnificent to behold. It was almost as satisfying to watch Catherine Wheels run over Pimpleman, rockets plummet into the chest of Earless and firecrackers send Canaryworm into a squawking flurry of flight as it had been to terrorise Umbridge with the fireworks last year. The dragon roared into existence and chased the Death Eaters out the window. A quick spell from George sent Sandman – the Death Eater still too caught up in his nightmares to realise what was going on – out after them. In a delightful display, the ignorant attackers tried Stunning spells and Vanishing charms to get rid of the nigh-unstoppable fireworks, which exploded and multiplied and crashed into each other to create new masterpieces that were swiftly overwhelming the Death Eaters.

 

When robes were tattered and eyes were half-blinded by brilliant flashes of light, the Death Eaters finally conceded defeat, swiftly Disapparating to escape the relentless attack. Canaryworm, Sandman and the dumb one in ropes were taken along for the ride, which saved the twins the trouble of calling the Aurors on them.

 

The danger passed, victory in hand, Fred and George grinned at each other. With a wave of their wands, the fireworks were redirected up into the sky to dispel the Dark Mark that had been cast presumptuously. Catherine Wheels spun round and round, trails of silver stars spiralled through the air, flying pink and silver pigs danced, the dragon swooped and looped, the firecrackers let out a beautiful array of bursting colours, and the sparklers gleefully spelled out insulting profanities that advertised this defeat of the Death Eaters to the world.

 

The twins watched silently for a few moments, letting the adrenaline of battle fade and absorbing the fact that wizards had just tried to kill them. On the plus side, they had survived, their shop wasn’t too damaged, and they themselves weren’t too badly hurt either.

 

Fred turned to his brother, conjuring a wet cloth to gently wipe the blood from his cheek. The ‘just a cut’ was actually quite a deep gash but it had already stopped bleeding.

 

“Mum could probably do this better, but,” he said with a shrug, using _Episkey_ to repair the wound.

 

“Nah, you’re getting pretty good,” George assured him, “what with all the times we’ve needed to hide our injuries from the parents-”

 

“-so they wouldn’t freak out or find out what we were up to.”

 

“Speaking of which, we better not tell mum about this. She didn’t even want us to move out of home in the first place-”

 

“-and if she knew we’d been attacked she’d drag us back to live at the Burrow quicker than-”

 

“-we could make little Ronnikins run by dropping a spider on his head.”

 

Fred laughed at the mental image, but then a thought occurred to him that wiped away all humour from the situation. “They attacked us because we’re Weasleys,” he said in horror. “Pettigrew said: ‘the Weasley clan has been sentenced to die’.”

 

George’s grin slipped from his face like Stinksap. “Not just us.”

 

Fred’s thoughts hurtled onwards. Of all of You-Know-Who’s followers, Pettigrew and his little band of merry men had been sent after them. Where were the others, like Bellatrix Lestrange? Surely they would enjoy taking down two Blood Traitors, and they would have had a better chance of making sure that the job was completed successfully. Not that Fred would have _wanted_ to be attacked by You-Know-Who’s top goons, but it worried him that they hadn’t come. It meant that they had to be somewhere else, doing something else. And if the whole Weasley family was on You-Know-Who’s hit list, then that ‘somewhere else’ had to be…

 

Fred looked at his twin; saw the same conclusion in his eyes.

 

“Home.”

 

ooOOoo

 

The house was burning.

 

They had no chance to take in anything else; the moment Fred and George _crack_ ed into existence on the scene they immediately had to dive for cover.

 

Spells were flying everywhere.

 

There were screams and shouts and grunts of effort, the roar of flames, explosions muffled by dirt or amplified by shattering rock, the sound of fists on flesh, squawking of chickens caught helplessly in the middle, terrified squeaks of gnomes fleeing through the fence.

 

Chaos.

 

Cowering behind the half-collapsed shed, George felt sick. His family was being attacked. They were all in danger – all the people in the world that he loved and cared about the most. What if they were already too late? What if-

 

Fred clapped a hand to his shoulder to get his attention, then squeezed reassuringly. “I’d be more worried if it was quiet,” he said, earning a puzzled look. “They’re still fighting,” he explained.

 

George understood his meaning, then, and felt a spark of relief. “We’re gonna help them win. Method of attack?”

 

“Set ‘em up, knock ‘em down. Get to the others, make sure they’re safe, and coordinate our efforts from there.”

 

George didn’t dare to ask what they’d do if they found a body; he didn’t even dare to think about it. “I’m with you.”

 

Fred nodded. He promptly danced out from their hiding place to draw attention to himself and seek out their first victim. His eyes caught on a squat man with a rather doughy face who was giggling wheezily as he held a wand on a figure that shrieked and writhed on the ground. Ginny.

 

Fury flared through him. “Hey lumpy! Beady eyes! Over here!” He cast a Stinging Hex, ensuring that he wouldn’t go ignored.

 

Ginny’s screams stopped as the man – a Carrow, Fred thought, remembering the mugshots printed in the _Prophet_ – spun clumsily to face him. “You need to pick on a girl to feel like a man?” he taunted.

 

“ _Crucio_!” Carrow yelled, and Fred danced out of the way. “ _Crucio! Crucio_!”

 

Fred dodged each curse neatly, pulling back fraction by fraction and drawing the Death Eater along with him. “Your aim is worse than the Chuddley Cannons beater who turned up at the last match drunk off his head!”

 

“ _Crucio_!”

 

“And your knowledge of spells obviously isn’t very extensive either. What did you do, skip all seven years of your education?”

 

He started to charge. “I’ll kill yeh!”

 

“Are you sure you know how?”

 

Lips curled into a snarl. “Avad-”

 

“Stupefy!”

 

George’s spell caught him square in the chest and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

 

“Petrificus Totalus,” Fred added for good measure. A wiggle of George’s wand encouraged the weeds to grow up and encase him.

 

A pale-faced Ginny climbed shakily to her feet; George rushed over to support her. “Are you okay?”

 

“I think so, ye-”

 

An unseen force shoved them both to the ground as a curse shot over their heads.

 

“Sorry, no time to be gentle,” Fred said, swiftly sending “Tarantellegra” back at the stocky witch – the other Carrow sibling, George thought. She abruptly lost control over her legs, which jerked into a flurry of movement and robbed her of balance. She hit the ground, shot off a _Reducto_ that was sent wildly off course by her flailing legs, growled the counter-spell to still them –and was promptly hit by a Bat-Bogey Hex cast by a grim-faced Ginny.

 

“Expelliarmus,” George added, while Fred cast “Carpe Retractum!” which snapped a rope around her ankle and dragged her back to lie beside her brother. She was scrabbling uselessly at the winged creatures attacking her face so the three of them left her there, deeming her sufficiently distracted for now, and ran onwards.

 

They came across their father next, engaged in a furious exchange of hexes and curses with four Death Eaters, one of whom Fred thought he recognised as a man named Rowle. The massive blond seemed to be a pyromaniac judging by his rapid altering between numerous flame-inducing spells, including _Confringo_ and _Incendio._ He had probably been the one to set the house on fire.

 

“Congelo Aguamenti!” Fred shouted, producing a jet of freezing cold water that froze into a huge ice block around Rowle and his wand.

 

Ginny took on another of the Death Eaters with a quick “Locomotor Mortis” – his legs snapped together, which prevented him from dodging one of their dad’s Stunning spells. He crashed to the ground.

 

George’s target resisted the Disarming spell he attempted first – he cast the Flagrante curse on the man’s wand instead – it burned his hand and he dropped it smartly. Unable then to cast a shield in his own defence, he was struck down by George’s follow-through “Obdormio!” which sent him immediately into a deep sleep and left him vulnerable to be tied up with conjured ropes.

 

The fourth Death Eater seized Ginny’s hair and tried to use her as a human shield to get the rest of them to back off, but Fred cast a spray of fiery sparks at him with a swift “Relashio” that forced him to release her. She spun and socked him in the jaw hard enough that he was knocked out cold.

 

“Ginny, thank goodness you’re alright,” their dad gasped, “I was trying to get to you, but-”

 

She hugged him briefly. “I know, it’s okay, I’m fine.”

 

“Where are the others?” Fred asked. _And how are they?_ George wondered silently.

 

“Bill was headed for the ward-stones the last I saw; he and Fleur ran around the back, but either the wards were too damaged to repair or they haven’t made it that far yet – Greyback and a few others were in pursuit.”

 

“Greyback?” George asked, paling.

 

“The werewolf?” Fred echoed.

 

“It’s not a full moon tonight,” their father told them, “but he’s no less dangerous for that.”

 

“What about everyone else?”

 

“The fight moved into the house – I got bogged down out here trying to make sure that more of them didn’t follow.” He raked his fingers through his hair, the strain of anxiety showing on his features.

 

“Alright,” Fred said, “George and I will go get Bill, you and Ginny back up mum and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

 

They all nodded, their father adding a brief “Be careful” before they split up.

 

The twins charged around the side of the house – just in time to see Bill’s shield shatter and a blast of red light hit him in the chest.

 

“Bill!” Fleur screamed, casting a furious “Repulso!” at the Death Eater blocking her way, dashing forward to reach her fallen fiancé.

 

A hand with thick yellow nails caught her arm and swung her towards a vicious-looking man who grinned pointed teeth at her predicament.

 

“Pretty little girl… You’ve got no boyfriend to fight for you now; time for me to have a little taste of that soft white skin…”

 

“No, get _off_ me! Bill, help, _Bill_!” her voice hit a shriek of panic as her kicks and struggles didn’t manage to force him away – sparks flared from her wand but it wasn’t at the right angle – Greyback bend back her wand hand until it gave a sickening _pop_ – Fred and George were still running, not close enough for the degree of accuracy necessary to make sure any spell they cast didn’t hit her instead of him – The other Death Eaters were watching, laughing, not noticing that reinforcements had arrived – Greyback’s mouth was lowering to her neck-

 

“Leave our sister alone, you flea-bitten mongrel!” Fred yelled, hoping for a moment of distraction. Greyback’s head snapped up and the other Death Eaters whirled-

 

Fred shot off Stunners, Disarmers, and blasting curses at the Death Eaters in quick succession – they were throwing up personal shields and returning fire, none of them noticing the spell that George shot through their ranks – The _Rennervate_ hit Bill dead-on, snapping him out of unconsciousness. Within a split-second clarity had returned and from his position on the ground Bill cast three swift _Stupefy_ s at the Death Eaters’ unprotected backs. They dropped like stones.

 

“Don’t try anything,” Greyback snarled, “Or I’ll snap her pretty little-”

 

Fleur stamped hard on his foot; he let go of her reflexively to cradle the wounded appendage, she lurched out of range which allowed Fred’s _Repulso_ to send him straight into Bill’s grip – Bill seized his head by the jaw and the back of the skull.

 

“This is for Remus Lupin,” he said. “And for threatening my girl.” Then he twisted with a sudden, violent jerk.

 

As the dead body collapsed to the ground, George swallowed nervously. This was an unexpected display of ruthlessness from his usually easy-going older brother. But Greyback had threatened to break Fleur’s neck; Bill had simply returned the favour. And George had heard the stories of this werewolf… prison would have been too good for him.

 

Fleur fell into Bill’s arms, not quite crying but taking deep shuddering breaths that were almost sobs. He embraced her tightly. “Are you okay, darling?” He pressed light kisses all over her face, then pulled back to get a good look at her. “Did he hurt you?”

 

“I think ’e broke my ‘and,” she admitted shakily, wincing as she raised the appendage that was bent at an unnatural angle and already showed dark, mottled bruising.

 

Rage flashed across Bill’s features. George rather thought that he now regretted finishing Greyback off so quickly.

 

“The spell you’re looking for is ‘Ferula’,” Fred prompted, with just a touch of impatience. The fight wasn’t over yet.

 

“Oh, right.” Bill poised his wand over the hand, murmured a pain-relieving spell and cast “Ferula.” The bones reset themselves, then a bandage and splint secured the hand. “We’ll get you some Skele-Gro as soon as we can, but this will have to do for now.”

 

“C’mon,” Fred said, gesturing towards the house from which the sounds of battle could still be heard. “The others need our help.”

 

Bill nodded, retrieving Fleur’s wand from the ground and passing it into her uninjured hand. “The wards can’t be rebuilt until there are no more enemy combatants within the boundaries anyway. Lead on, little brothers.”

 

The twins ran for the house and burst through the back door, followed closely by the couple. More Death Eaters greeted them – this was a full-on assault. Even as they parried and cast, dodged and advanced, the twins were having difficulty understanding why You-Know-Who was willing to expend so much effort on taking out their family, even if they were so-called Blood Traitors who strongly opposed his cause. Were they really worth all this trouble?

 

“We got him, now let’s get outta here!” someone yelled. Not any of the Weasley clan.

 

_Got who?_

 

“Dammit, the Anti-Apparation wards are still up!”

 

The voices were coming from up the stairs.

 

“Don’t look at me; that wasn’t my job!

 

The twins tried to break through into the hallway, but it was too heavily guarded.

 

“Right, that’s Weldor for you – all power, no brains. I’m gonna kill him!”

 

George helped his dad slam one Death Eater into the wall.

 

“I think the fertility-goddess wannabe already did.”

 

Ginny and Fred cast “Everte Statum!” simultaneously, which hurled another Death Eater out of the lounge room window.

 

“Serve him r- Ouch! The damn brat bit me – again!”

 

Fleur cast a Sticking Hex that glued a wizard’s clothes to his skin while Bill set the hem on fire; he ran shrieking from the house, probably headed for the lake.

 

“Why didn’t you just Stun him?”

 

A stack of their mum’s best dinner plates got caught in the cross-fire and smashed into a million sharp pieces; bare-footed Ginny cried out when she stepped on the wreckage by accident.

 

“I already got him in a Leg-lock, took away his wand and Silenced him, and that was hard enough to do! You’d think that’d be enough, but no, dammit, he won’t – stop – wriggling!”

 

The dining table exploded and shot splinters into their legs.

 

“Just clonk him on the head, then!”

 

A loud thud was heard.

 

“Frig, look at that Nelson, he’s still conscious! That blow woulda knocked the lights out of a troll!”

 

Another Death Eater fell under the sheer weight of numerous hexes that struck him.

 

“Trolls ain’t got no lights, they’re dumber than- oh, never mind. He’s not gonna get away, so let’s just get moving before that crazy blonde wakes up!”

 

An invisible force slammed into Fred’s gut – he doubled over, wheezing – George shot back a retaliatory spell – the offender crumpled.

 

“The blon-? You idiot! We’re supposed to get him, too!”

 

Their dad’s “Flipendo” flung an ugly brute of a wizard backwards out of the way; his head struck the sharp corner of a wall with a _crack._

 

“I can’t do everything! Besides, he damn near broke my leg! Why don’t you go back and grab him, if you’re so clever?”

_Lacarnum Inflamare_ conjured a ball of fire from Bill’s wand that cleared the rest of the hallway; the defenders broke for the foot of the stairs.

 

“Oh, looks like he’s coming to us…”

 

Two identical jaws dropped in disbelief at the sight; the two bickering Death Eaters were on the first floor landing, one carrying none other than a fiercely struggling Harry Potter who was yelling inaudibly, and _Draco Malfoy_ was charging towards them – hair askew, eyes wild, covered in blood, screaming a battle cry.

 

Spells shot out of Malfoy’s wand faster than Fred could identify them; the shields of the first Death Eater were shattered in mere moments, and suddenly he resembled nothing so much as an enormous slug (as though Malfoy had remembered and used every spell that the DA had attacked him with on the train back from Hogwarts). The other one was struggling to hold onto Harry and defend himself at the same time – he twisted awkwardly to deflect a hex and lost his balance.

 

It seemed to happen in slow motion – the Death Eater started his fall down the stairwell, dragging Harry with him – Malfoy’s face transformed into horror – six beams of white light shot out to catch Harry before his head struck the steps – the Death Eater’s neck _crunch_ ed as he hit the bottom and he lay, unmoving – between them, the defenders carefully lowered Harry to safety. A few seconds later, they all realised that there was no one left to attack them; all the Death Eaters were either dead, unconscious or otherwise incapacitated.

 

Silence, then, except for the sound of people catching their breath, and the distant crackling of flames.

 

Bill finally excused himself (Fleur followed) to go put out the fire that was threatening to break through the Imperturbable charms built into the house at its creation, which seemed to break the dam.

 

George reached out and laid a hand on his twin’s arm, squeezing gently in an expression of both affection and relief that they had somehow survived their second battle in as many hours. Fred returned a smile. Surrounded by death and destruction, neither of them felt particularly inclined to make a joke just yet. The laughter would come, though. Once they knew everyone was alright, and the house was returned to normal.

 

“Where are the others?” Fred asked, thinking, as always, along the same lines.

 

Up until this point, Harry had been staring blankly at nothing, tottering slightly on oddly stiff legs, sweat pouring down his forehead to make streaks through the dirt and blood. When Fred spoke, though, clarity returned to those green eyes.

 

Clarity, and terror.

 

He blanched, and choked, as though torn between crying and throwing up. His eyes flicked upwards, to something unseen. His face was wrought with devastation, his breathing erratic. 

 

George had felt enough fear this night. He didn’t want to know the cause of Harry’s fear, now. But want and need were different things.

 

“What is it?” he asked.

 

“Are you okay, Harry?” Ginny echoed.

 

Harry’s gaze flashed to them. His lips began to move frantically, mouthing words that had no sound to them. They stared back at him, askance. He looked about ready to pull his hair out in frustration, at their lack of understanding, at his helplessness – either that or burst into tears. He abandoned any attempt to speak, starting to shake his head with the violence of desperation and gesture upstairs.

 

“Oh, sorry, Harry,” the Weasley’s father said, quirking a tired smile. “Finite Incantatem.”

 

Harry’s legs sprung suddenly apart and launched him toward the stairs, as though his brain had been sending repeated messages to move but his limbs had been unable to obey. The leg-locker curse, George realised. Harry nearly stumbled, catching himself on the banister and drawing in a deep breath.

 

“Mrs Weasley,” he said. So quietly that they could barely hear, and they didn’t understand.

 

“What-”

 

“Mrs Weasley,” he repeated, louder this time, a gasping sob. “Mrs- Mrs Weasley-” His whole body was shaking. His hands slipped from the wood and he sank to his knees. “M- Molly, Mrs Weasley, she- you have to-” His words cut off. His back arched; bile splattered the ground. He was choking again, curling in on himself in agony.

 

Their dad had gone white. His concern for Harry was evident, but, seemingly of their own accord, his legs took over. He dashed up the stairs. “Molly? Molly! Mol-”

 

Dead silence.

 

ooOOoo

 


	21. Hurting and Healing

 

Draco was about ready to collapse in exhaustion.

 

The day had started out innocuously enough. Potter had had a relatively restful sleep for a change, though he’d still woken up far earlier than any normal teenage boy would during the holidays.  Draco had watched as Potter made enough porridge to feed an army, and then listened with some amusement as a flustered Mrs Weasley tried to convince him that he was a guest in the house and shouldn’t feel the need to cook or take up any of the other chores. Draco rather thought that she wasn’t accustomed to having anyone else using her kitchen, but Potter seemed to find the activity soothing – or at least mind-numbing – and he really did make delicious food.

 

Potter hadn’t eaten as much as they all privately hoped, but they were aware that his appetite was increasing gradually, and the nutritive potions were beginning to add some healthy weight to his frame.

 

Draco and the Gryffindor Trio had then spent the rest of the day playing Gobstones, listening to the Wizarding Wireless Network on Ron’s radio, quibbling over the latest Quidditch stats (well, Ron and Draco anyway – Granger wasn’t really interested, and Potter was quiet) and discussing career options.

 

His own O.W.L results had come as no surprise to Draco. Out of his nine subjects, he had received eight Outstandings (in Potions, Transfiguration, DADA, Charms, Herbology, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and History of Magic). He had refused on principle to achieve such a result for Care of Magical Creatures because doing so might have reflected well on that oaf Hagrid, but had only taken it down one notch to Exceeds Expectations.

 

Upon reading his results, Draco’s natural instinct was to tell his parents. His father might have given him a rare smile and a pat on the shoulder, then bought him an expensive gift of some sort as a reward. His mother would have hugged him and perhaps let her cool exterior slip for a moment to express how proud she was.  But he couldn’t tell them, of course. He had to settle with the congratulations of the Trio and the Weasleys, which, he decided afterwards, wasn’t so bad.

 

Genuinely unexpected, though, was how disappointed Potter had been by his Exceeds Expectations result for Potions. Considering how much Potter seemed to loath the subject (as well as the Professor who taught it), Draco thought that he would hardly care about doing well in it, and would be glad to be shot of the class for N.E.W.T levels. When he’d asked, Potter had denied any such disappointment, saying that he’d known all along that he wouldn’t score highly for Potions and he was pleasantly surprised to have done as well as he did.

 

However, this afternoon Draco had discovered the reason why Potter had hoped for an Outstanding, and if anything it only surprised him more. Potter wanted to be an Auror?

 

“An _Auror_?” Draco had asked. “Really? You?”

 

“What’s so weird about that?” Ron shot back, ever defensive.

 

“Harry would be a great Auror,” Granger said. “He’s already had loads of practical experience-”

 

“Exactly.”

 

In the nature of Gryffindors, they didn’t understand what he was getting at even though he felt it should have been obvious. Small words, he reminded himself, and simple concepts.

 

“Well, aren’t you sick of it by now, Potter? Fighting for your life, being constantly on edge? I would have thought that you would prefer a career that was a little more relaxing.”

 

Potter frowned. “I have to fight Voldemort. Being an Auror just makes sense.”

 

“But you intend to _defeat_ Voldemort, don’t you?”

 

He nodded uncertainly.

 

“Well then, what are you going to do after?”

 

“After?” Potter asked disingenuously.

 

“After the Dark Lord has been defeated,” Draco reiterated, beginning to realise that maybe Potter had never actually thought about the possibility of a time without the threat of the Dark Lord hanging over him. “Would you really want to stay on as an Auror, chasing down other Dark wizards and criminals of the Wizarding world for the rest of your life?”

 

“But-but what else is there?” Potter stammered. “Defence Against the Dark Arts is the only subject I got an Outstanding in. Fighting the Dark is what I do – it’s what I was born for.”

 

“Well you’re good at it, I’ll grant you that. But you should do something you love and enjoy for your career, not something that you feel is an obligation.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Draco couldn’t quite believe he was giving Potter careers advice. Wasn’t this what his Head of House was for? “How about Professional Quidditch?” he suggested. “I bet you could fly rings around even stars like Victor Krum with your talent.”

 

“Er, thanks. But playing in front of the whole school is one thing… I don’t know if I could handle the pressure of playing in front of huge crowds like at the Quidditch World Cup.”

 

Potter fearing he couldn’t handle pressure? Like the pressure of being famous before he even turned two, or the pressure of being marked in Prophecy, for example? Potter was a bundle of contradictions sometimes. “Okay, then what about teaching?”

 

Granger’s eyes lit up. “That’s a brilliant idea!” she gushed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

 

“Teaching?” Potter repeated, as though testing how the word sounded in his mouth, beginning to look thoughtful.

 

“Yeah, mate,” Ron joined in, “You were a great teacher in the DA. We all learned heaps from you!”

 

“You’d be really good, Harry!” Hermione enthused. “I bet you’d love it, too.”

 

“And, if you think about it,” Draco pointed out, “you would still be fighting the Dark Arts, in a way, by helping other people learn to protect themselves. You could train up little Aurors without having to be an Auror yourself.”

 

By that point, Potter had looked downright intrigued.

 

The rest of the day had passed fairly uneventfully. After dinner, the four of them had settled down in Draco’s and Potter’s room for a few rounds of Exploding Snap, and Mrs Weasley had brought up some supper for them all.

 

Just as Draco had been biting into a scrumptious home-made Cauldron Cake, all hell had broken loose.

 

An almighty _CRACK_ shattered the peaceful quiet of dusk. Draco discovered a moment later, when he rushed to the window and looked out, that the sound had heralded the arrival of many more Death Eaters than had been present at the Battle of Privet Drive. He had no time to count them; they raised their wands, there was a huge build-up of energy, and then with a _BOOM_ like thunder and a massive concussion in the air, the wards imploded. The window Draco stood at – all the windows – smashed inwards, and though he dove for cover he still ended up with a deep slice across his forehead that immediately started pouring blood.

 

There had been a lull, then, like the calm before a storm.

 

“ _Give us Harry Potter_ ,” ordered a loud voice, clearly enhanced by the _Sonorus_ charm. “ _We know that he is here. Give us Potter, and we will spare your lives. Resist us, and you all shall die. Painfully_.”

 

All colour had drained from Potter’s face. His worst fears, coming true.

 

The surge of guilt that Draco felt for putting the Weasleys in danger was unexpected. A month ago, he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest if they were attacked; the idea might have even given him pleasure. A couple of weeks ago, he wouldn’t have cared personally, but he would have been acutely aware of the devastation that Potter would be feeling. Now that he had spent time with them himself… he was starting to realise why Potter loved this family so much. It was very different to Draco’s own. It was loud, and chaotic, and shabby, and poor. But there was never a dull moment, it was fun, and happy, and no one was afraid or ashamed to show their affection for each other. At one point, Draco had even caught himself feeling _jealous_ of Ron, for having grown up here, like this.

 

And now this home, and this family, were under threat because he had brought Potter here.

 

Potter, apparently, was thinking the same thing. He stood up abruptly, his face set with resolve, and broke for the door – with lightning-fast reflexes that Draco would never have expected from the plump woman, Mrs Weasley caught him.

 

“No, Harry.”

 

He struggled, but for a gentle woman her grip was quite firm when it needed to be. “You heard what they said. I have to!”

 

“We are not going to just hand you over to them to be taken to You-Know-Who and murdered.  We promised Draco that we’d protect you like one of our own, and we will. If they want you, they’ll have to come through all of us. And we are going to put up one hell of a fight.”

 

“No, please, don’t do this,” Potter begged.

 

“ _You have one more minute to produce Potter, or we will come in there and take him by force_.”

 

Draco turned automatically to look out the window (or what was left of it, namely, the frame) again, and saw that, in answer, a bolt of ruby energy shot out from the ground level of the house. The speaker crumpled.

 

“Good on you, Arthur,” Mrs Weasley said, a tight smile of combined pride and tension curving her lips.

 

And then the Death Eaters roared a battle cry, and the night exploded with magic.

 

Draco maintained his position by the window, shooting out spells from the high ground to knock back or take out as many Death Eaters as he could before they reached the house. Ron and Granger came to reinforce him.

 

Potter stood back, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no, no… You can’t do this, I won’t let you do this…”

 

Draco glanced over his shoulder, worried that Potter would run out there and get himself killed, but Mrs Weasley was blocking the doorway. “Harry, we love you. You are as precious to us as if you were one of our own children, and we want you safe.”

 

“But-”

 

“But you should understand also, that this isn’t just about you. Our family joined the war at its very beginning, when You-Know-Who first came to power and started to display his true colours.

 

“We are purebloods. The easy thing, the safer thing, to do would have been to support You-Know-Who, or at least not oppose him. Many people made that choice. But we decided that we would not compromise our principles. We would not allow an evil man to destroy our society and murder innocent people while we sat idly by.

 

“Fighting him was the right thing to do. It _is_ the right thing to do. Before you were even born, my brothers gave their lives for our cause. Losing them was hard. This battle, right here, right now, will be hard. But just as we would not give in then, we will not give in now. We will fight them to the death, if that’s what we have to do to protect you.”

 

“But I’m not-”

 

“You are important, Harry. To us, and to the entire Wizarding world. You could be the one to turn the tide of this war. You could be the one to defeat You-Know-Who once and for all. But you are not ready yet. And so we will defend you until you are. If you try to stop us, you will be destroying everything we stand for, and you will only be helping them. I know that’s not what you want.”

 

Potter relented, then.

 

Mrs Weasley instructed them to stay in the bedroom (indirectly telling Draco, Ron and Granger to be Potter’s last line of defence), gave Ron a kiss on the top of his head and Harry a quick hug, then left to support her husband.

 

The battle raged and, despite the defenders’ best efforts, it wasn’t long before Death Eaters had broken into the house.  They could hear them smashing up the kitchen, and then footsteps thundering up the stairs.

 

Draco had no idea where he got the nerve, but suddenly he found himself abandoning his original post, darting out of the room, and locking then shielding the door behind him.

 

The part of his brain that demanded a rationale for taking such reckless action was only mildly appeased by the theory that fighting would be harder in the confined quarters of the bedroom, so it made sense to come out here. The part that was inclined to panic didn’t have time to convince him to run and hide – the Death Eaters were already upon him.

 

Looking back, all that Draco could really remember of those next few minutes was a blur of lights and sounds and unpleasant sensations. He lost track of the number of spells that he shot and reflected, the number of Death Eaters he knocked out of the fight only to have them replaced by more. He never did see the hex that slammed into his shoulder and spun him to hit the wall hard, but it left him dazed and unable to get up for a time.

 

Hearing the bedroom door explode regained his attention.

 

Ignoring the aching protests of his body, Draco stood to his feet and launched himself back into the melee.

 

Granger and Weasley, it turned out, were quite sufficient fighters as well. Their styles, and their choice of spells, were very much like Potter’s; evidence of the training they’d received in the DA under his instruction. The thought occurred to Draco that, if they hadn’t started up the defence club last year, Umbridge’s meagre teaching could have left them entirely unprepared for this. So much for her theory that they would never have to face any practitioners of the Dark Arts out in the real world. She really _was_ a fool.

 

For a short time, the four of them working together managed to drive back the attackers – but then Granger was struck by a Stunner and went down, which in turn distracted Weasley at a crucial moment; a well-timed _Reducto_ shot through his shield as it faltered but missed by inches, blowing up the wardrobe next to him instead – unidentified joke shop prototypes contained within magnified the explosion ten-fold. Weasley was thrown across the room and didn’t get up again, Granger was half-buried, and both Draco and Potter were knocked off balance. Much to Draco’s embarrassment – and pain – he very ungracefully face-planted; his nose crunched first and immediately spouted blood, but a split second later that was the least of his problems as, following the natural trajectory of the fall, his forehead smacked into the ground. The world flashed white.

 

He struggled to push himself up again, trying to blink the blood out of his eyes and muster the strength within himself to continue fighting.

 

Witnessing Potter get hit by a Cruciatus and _scream_ like he had never screamed under the abuse of his relatives did the trick – Draco was flooded with a renewed dose of adrenaline. He threw himself at the one wielding the curse, slamming bodily into him. They hit the floor – Draco rolled with the movement to ensure he ended up on top, and then set about punching every inch of the Death Eating bastard that he could reach.

 

“Malfoy, look o- _mff_!”

 

Draco’s head jerked up at the warning – a flash of light was arcing toward him – he twisted hard to the side – it struck the Death Eater instead. As the man was propelled backwards, Draco calculated that he had just a few seconds to spare. He looked to where Potter was struggling against another of the attackers. The Death Eater was shaking a bleeding hand and cursing loudly (ineffectual words that conjured no magic, but expressed his pain and rage adequately), as Potter wiped blood from his mouth. Green eyes glittered. The attacker snarled and gave a sharp twirl of his wand.

 

Potter’s hands flew to his throat, clawing at something unseen. Choking, trying desperately to draw air into his lungs. Like a huge hand was ruthlessly crushing his windpipe.

 

“Concipio Aeris!” Draco yelled the counter-spell, the words barely having left his mouth when a curse slammed into his back. Fire lanced down every nerve. He spun, clumsily, shooting off an _Impedimenta_ to slow the progress of the one – no, he’d been joined by three others – in the doorway.

 

The air was soon thick with spells. Draco and Potter fought hard, but Draco could feel himself rapidly tiring. More and more hexes were slipping though his net, wearing him down with each blow. The Death Eaters just kept coming.

 

He thought about what would happen if they lost. If Potter was taken. What the despicable Dursleys had done would pale in comparison to the Dark Lord’s plans for the one person who had dared to survive his Killing Curse. Potter would suffer unspeakable horrors. And he had already suffered enough. Draco had made a promise. He had to keep it.

 

Fury, resolve, power thundered through him. A raw scream erupted from deep within. He charged. Death Eaters fell before him.

 

He only realised that he had burst out onto the landing when he caught sight of Mrs Weasley, red hair sticking out in all directions, looking nothing so much as the human incarnation of an inferno, pounding up the stairs. The kindly woman, the caring mother, the gentle soul was gone; in her place, a master duellist, royally pissed and out for blood. Coming to the rescue.

 

He allowed himself a fleeting smile of relief to finally have backup.

 

And then Draco’s world imploded.

 

Time passed. How much, it was impossible to know.

 

His magic awoke before him, reaching out, searching frantically for the core of power that was uniquely Potter. He wasn’t nearby. The magic tugged impatiently, dragging his mind out of the darkness of sweet oblivion to get his body moving.

 

His senses kicking in first, Draco heard the sound of distant fighting, and, closer, two loud voices bickering with each other.  Over Potter. And the crazy blonde. There weren’t that many blondes in the Weasley household. Mostly red-heads. An overwhelming number of red-heads, that seemed to set a room ablaze when they were all present. There was Fleur, of course, though what she could have done to earn the title ‘crazy’ – oh. Well, he’d been called better. And worse.

 

He decided to live up to it.

 

Impossible as it seemed, the numbers of Death Eaters had in fact been whittled down some. Draco met no resistance as he charged to Potter’s defence, and taking down the first would-be-kidnapper was easier than he’d expected.

 

And then Draco made a mistake that stopped his heart, choked him with terror.

 

 _I killed Harry Potter._ The thought flashed through his mind, even as he shot out a desperate spell to try to halt Potter’s deadly tumble down the stairs. The magic of others came to his aid, and he felt a heady relief as Potter was lowered to safety.

 

In the moment of quiet, Draco willed himself to calm down. It was over.

 

Except, it wasn’t.

 

Draco was exhausted. He wanted to sleep for a year, and he didn’t even care if it was out on this creaky wooden landing. Everything hurt. His muscles trembled, his legs felt like jelly, his brain was mush.

 

He watched without comprehension the events that were unfolding on the level below him, though Potter’s state of distress was clear even to his befuddled mind, and he felt concern stirring.

 

He stumbled when a blurred figure darted past him, taken by surprise. The person was calling out for something. Someone.

 

Draco’s head pounded. Wiping a sticky substance from his eyelids resulted in his fingers coming away red. Blood. Well yes, that made sense. He had hit his head a number of times in the course of the battle; it was natural for the thin layer of skin that covered his skull to have taken offense. It was possible, too, he supposed, that he had a concussion. But he had seen worse head injuries; notably, the injury that had nearly killed Potter not a few weeks back.

 

More footsteps thundered up the stairs and Draco made way for the Weasley children by staggering back a step. He absently noted that Ron wasn’t in the herd and remembered that he had been knocked unconscious by a blast earlier. Maybe that was why people were running?

 

But while he knew that Potter cared deeply for his friends, Draco didn’t think that the fact that Ron and Granger were unconscious would be enough to morph Potter into that ball of misery that was rocking, heaving, shuddering, at the base of the stairs.

 

He forced himself to concentrate. “Potter?”

 

His movements were a bit unsteady as he made his way down. His hand reached out to touch Potter’s back without conscious thought on his part; there was a slight flinch beneath his fingertips, but before he could move away Potter abruptly shifted position to seize his hand like a lifeline.

 

“Malfoy,” he gasped out.

 

“None other,” Draco replied. If his head hadn’t hurt so much, he might have attempted some clever witticism.

 

“M-Mrs Weasley.”

 

“No, Potter, you had it right the first time. Malfoy,” he corrected. Potter had a bit of a lump on his forehead, too, so he guessed that confusion was warranted.

 

“She’s d- she’s badly hurt. You have to help. I have to help.” He stood up suddenly, wide-eyed with revulsion at his own actions, or lack thereof. “What am I _doing_? Sitting here, like some selfish, useless, worthless- I have to help. I have to get help.”

 

He made for the lounge room, scrabbling in the rubble to pick up ash that had spilled from a flower pot… not ash. Floo Powder.

 

“Madam Pomfrey,” Potter was mumbling to himself. “Not enough. So many hurt. Mrs Weasley. It’s bad. She blocked half of it, but she’s still – she’s a mess, and I don’t know- The Healers at Saint Mungos, as well. Need them.”

 

“Aurors, too,” Draco added, noticing the nearby form of a Death Eater starting to stir. He kicked the dark wizard in the head to still him, for now. But there were a lot of them to deal with, even if some had Disapparated.

 

“Aurors, too,” Potter agreed. “You have to help.”

 

Draco lifted an eyebrow – then winced when the movement hurt.

 

“You saved me before. Hermione explained what you did. You can do it again.” Potter turned pleading green eyes on him. “Please tell me you can do it again.”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“I can’t bear it. I swear I can’t. I don’t want her to die. I know it’s not fair of me to ask, but I don’t know what else to do. She’s dying. Please, Malfoy… Please.”

 

Potter begging him. The boy he had been, proud son of Lucius Malfoy, would have been smugly pleased and obstinately unhelpful.

 

The boy he was now didn’t hesitate. Heedless of pain or injury, Draco sprinted back up the stairs, guided by the sounds of grief and despair mingled with hoarse spell casting that spoke of the desperate, determined hope of Gryffindors.

 

He found himself back in the bedroom that was his and Potter’s, but more rubble than room now. His gaze skimmed over the crumpled forms of Ron and Granger – they looked no worse for wear, though they had still not awoken – and over the other Weasley children, who stood at the edges. He tried to ignore the heart-rending sounds that they were trying to suppress as they watched with grief-stricken eyes.

 

Mr Weasley knelt in the middle of the room, wand held in a trembling hand over what looked to be a mound of spilled potion ingredients.

 

When he recognised the puddles of blood and cords of human gut for what they were, Draco very nearly lost the entire contents of his stomach and then some. Catching sight of the face of the woman who had invited him into her home, lying ghostly pale in the lap of her husband, and realising what – who – it was… It was as though a huge fist slammed into his heart.

 

His feet stumbled forward. He dropped down beside her.

 

There was so much damage. She should be dead already. She would be, if she hadn’t deflected some of the curse. And she might still die. So much damage. Like she had been turned inside out.

 

Draco closed his eyes. It was more than he wanted to see, could stand to see. This summer had exposed him to so many more dreadful sights than his whole life before-hand. It was as though he were living in a nightmare world. He longed to wake from it. He knew he wouldn’t.

 

But even as one part of his mind wanted to continue feeling sorry for himself, Draco knew the urgency of the situation and was reaching out with his Sight.

 

Her magical core – an erratically pulsing sphere of warm reds and pinks – inhabited the same space as her heart. Draco hadn’t realised that the core of a person could be focused in different parts of the body, but he filed it away as currently unimportant and focused on the task at hand.

 

He could tell she was fading.

 

He was so tired.

 

He extended a tendril of his own magic, touching it to hers.

 

 _I am here to help_ , he thought.

 

Her magic didn’t try to repel him, nor did it attempt to suck him dry. It just accepted what he offered with a gentle grace.

 

He could sense her wounds, and the dark magic that infested them. He found himself needing to armour his thread as the curse sensed his interference and tried to end it. It was like casting a Shield charm around his own magic, which intensified his headache to visualise and implement but managed to keep the enemy away.

 

In the periphery of his awareness he noticed several others enter the room. Healers, he guessed, and the theory was confirmed when a host of blue threads came to aid in his efforts. They started weaving through her body immediately, aiming for the areas of pain and injury that Draco’s Sight showed as a thick red haze.

 

But they never made it that far.

 

The curse remnant sensed them coming and lashed out. The explosion of light as the two forces collided was almost blinding, and even as he flinched Draco could hear the cries of pain from the Healers as their magic was shredded. Still, the blue kept coming – Healers would never give up while their strength remained.

 

But he could tell that it wasn’t helping. He forced himself to focus through the glare of the explosions, and saw that the curse was actually ripping the power away from the healing magic and using it to make itself stronger.

 

Draco tried to weave some of his own makeshift protection around the Healers’ threads but before he had the chance to close off the seams the curse slipped under his shields and rent them from the inside. The backlash of power staggered him and he pulled back swiftly to defend and strengthen the core.

 

“Stop,” he gasped out to the Healers, splitting his attention and increasing the severity of his headache tenfold. “You’re making it worse!”

 

His Sight told him that they weren’t listening. “Stop it!” he repeated louder, using his spare hand to give the Healer next to him a slight shove. “Stop, you’re only making the curse stronger, you’re going to kill her if you keep this up!”

 

He could sense the red haze of pain spreading, he could see that the wound was bleeding more profusely than before, and he knew that if they didn’t change tactics quickly Mrs Weasley was going to die. The woman who, despite the animosity between the Malfoy and Weasley families, had given him sanctuary in her home.  The woman who had taken this injury in the defence of Potter. The woman who was so dearly loved by all her children, and also by the orphaned boy she had all but adopted. The woman who had stated so calmly that she was willing to give her life for the Light, but would cause such grief in her passing, and wouldn’t die, not this day, if Draco had anything to say about it.

 

He didn’t waste any more breath trying to reason with them, refocusing his entire attention on the battle taking place within Mrs Weasley’s body. He fixed down anchors that would ensure the core continued to receive a steady trickle from his reserves, and then concentrated – brow wrinkling – to release a short burst of power that pushed back every other foreign force present. He heard startled exclamations from the Healers as they involuntarily toppled back away from their patient, their magic forcibly returned to them. The curse retreated, too, but Draco worried that wouldn’t last long.

 

“Mr Malfoy, what do you think you are doing?” blustered one of the Healers – a young woman, likely certified only a few years ago and clearly not in charge, though she might like to be.

 

“Who is senior?” he returned.

 

“I am. Healer Gwyneth Osborne.” She was a stern-looking lady, with greying hair tied back into a tight bun, her expression one of severe displeasure at his interference. “And you, Mr Malfoy, are endangering the life of our patient. Explain yourself, or get out of-”

 

“You _bastard!_ ”

 

A hand seized Draco’s hair and yanked him roughly backwards. He let out a yelp of pain and surprise – and panic as he lost contact with Mrs Weasley’s shoulder. His magic scrambled to remain connected, even as he found himself facing an irate Fred Weasley, backed up by an equally angry George.

 

He had a sudden flash of memory from a Quidditch match last year; he had been deliberately trying to rile up the Weasley players by insulting their parents, and it had worked far better than he anticipated – too late he released he had pushed them to violence, and the consequences had hurt. That had been over mere insults. This, from their misguided point of view, was a lot worse. With two wands aimed at his face, and two sets of blue eyes hard as ice glaring at him, Draco was getting the very strong impression that he was in trouble. He found it somewhat ironic that in this particular incidence he actually had the best intentions.

 

“Please, listen to me just for a moment.” Draco spoke slowly, calmly, making sure there was no trace of his usual arrogance in his voice. “You can beat me up later, but I am trying to save your mother’s life.”

 

Fred snorted his disbelief, but held off attacking him for the time being, which Draco figured was about as much as he could hope for.

 

“I can see the internal workings of magic,” he said. “When I concentrate, I can see the magical core of a person, its condition, and any threads of power running through them at the time.”

 

A few of the Healers looked impressed, others puzzled, and the Weasleys impatient. Draco noticed that Mr Weasley wasn’t listening; he was holding his wife’s limp hand in his own, watching her face closely as though hoping she might at any moment wake up to prove herself alright, and mumbling incoherent endearments through his tears. It was a heartbreaking sight, and it hardened Draco’s resolve further.

 

“Mrs Weasley’s core is strong, though her magic is having to work overtime to keep her alive. I am lending her some of my power to that end…” He couldn’t help giving the twins an irritated frown. “Which, by the way, would be a lot easier if I could maintain contact with her.”

 

“That may be, Mr Malfoy,” Healer Osborne said, “But why did you push us out?”

 

“Because the curse that caused her injury is still inside her,” Draco explained, glad that she at least seemed inclined to listen to him now. “When you send your magic in to try to heal her, what you are actually doing is feeding the curse and making it stronger. If I hadn’t stopped you, it could have killed her by now.”

 

Silence greeted his words. Even the stern senior Healer looked pale, and some of the younger ones appeared visibly nauseated by the thought that their actions could have brought harm to their patient.

 

“Then what do we do?” someone asked. Draco realised that they were looking to him for the answers. His mouth was dry.

 

“All I know is that internal magic won’t work,” he told them. “Potions might…” he mused, “because their power diffuses through the body so the curse would have trouble latching onto anything…”

 

Healer Osborne nodded and snapped her fingers. Bottles of Pain Reliving, Blood Replenishing and Revitalising potions were pulled from various pockets of a coat that looked very similar to the one Madam Pomfrey had worn for her house call.

 

“Any external magic you could use would work too, I think,” Draco suggested.  


Healer Osborne frowned in thought, then conferred quietly with her team.

 

In the interim, Draco glanced pointedly at the hand that still had a tight grip on his shirt. “Are you going to let go of me any time soon, Weasley?”

 

Fred’s glare deepened. “Why would Draco Malfoy help our mum?” he asked; apparently his suspicion of all things Malfoy hadn’t lessened at all over the past couple of minutes.

 

“Or better question yet,” George added.

 

“-what are you doing in our house?”

 

It was Ginny, wearing a puzzled expression, who spoke up to answer. “We sent you a letter explaining that Harry and Malfoy were going to be at the Burrow for the rest of the holidays. Didn’t you get it?”

 

The twins looked at each other, then answered in unison, “No.”

 

A terrible thought entered Draco’s mind. “A letter,” he repeated. “Saying that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy – both of whom are high on the Dark Lord’s hit list – were living at your house. And it was never received by the intended recipients.”

 

Ginny’s face went stark white. “Oh Merlin, you think that Death Eaters intercepted the letter, and that’s how they knew…”

 

“It seems likely,” Draco admitted. Keeping an eye on the mail of one’s enemies was a logical move – even Umbridge, the toad, had known enough to do it.

 

“…stupid…” she mumbled.

 

“Mr Malfoy, we’re going to try a few things,” Healer Osborne said. “Will you keep an eye on Mrs Weasley’s internal state for us?”

 

Draco looked to the twins.

 

“Harry vouches for him, believe it or not,” Ginny added.

 

“Fine,” George said, and Fred let go. “But if we find out you have lied about… all that core and curse stuff you were spouting-”

 

“-you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

 

 _Original,_ Draco thought. But it was no less threatening for that; these Weasleys seemed to take threats against their family very seriously.

 

He nodded his understanding and moved back to his position at Mrs Weasley’s side. He avoided looking directly at the wound (aware that his vomiting wouldn’t do anyone any good at the moment), placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and closed his eyes. His magic relaxed slightly at the renewed contact, thankfully reducing the splitting headache a bit and allowing him to focus more clearly on the task at hand.

 

Her core was doing well under the circumstances, keeping her mind and body alive. Draco was pleased to observe that the curse didn’t seem able to tap the host’s magic. The wound was still dire, though, and Draco hoped that the Healers would be able to pull off a miracle to save her life. He suspected that virtually no one had survived more than a few moments after being hit with this curse before – her deflection had gained them some much needed time – so they would probably be making it up as they went along.

 

Draco dimly heard them start to cast, and saw the haze of red shifting, shrinking, rearranging. He caught glimpses of the blue threads every so often, but they darted in and out so quickly that the curse was unable to latch on. He risked a one-eyed peek at the external situation and saw that the spilled viscera were being carefully replaced inside her body. He closed off the sight quickly, but the expected bout of nausea didn’t come, and a corner of his mind wondered when he had started to develop a stronger stomach for this sort of thing.

 

“…lucky none of the organs… badly damaged…” someone said quietly. “…only a few small nicks here and there… possibly one good thing that this was… spell inflicted… split the skin, but didn’t actually cut in deeper…”

 

Draco checked on the core, which had begun to pulse more naturally and send out a few tentative threads of magic. Even more promising was the fact that the curse was beginning to lose ground and fade a little now that it wasn’t being fed.

 

Another peek revealed something startling; Draco gaped at the sight quite openly. It appeared Healer Osborne had conjured a needle and thread, and was sewing – _sewing_! – the skin of Mrs Weasley’s belly back together.

 

She was saying something. “…listened to that trainee, Pye, ramble on about his complementary medicine… nice enough fellow, and passionate about his work, so I thought I’d humour him… never imagined it might actually come in _useful…_ ”

 

“No way,” George said.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Fred added.

 

“Augustus Pye.”

 

“The guy who convinced Dad to try out Muggle medicine last year.”

 

“You’re not seriously using-”

 

“- _stitches_ are you?”

 

Osborne nodded absently as she worked. “Yes, I think that’s what he called them.”

 

Seemingly against all odds, the twins looked at each other and positively beamed. “That’s brilliant!”

 

“When mum finds out about this she’s going to freak!”

 

Their grins faltered slightly. “It’s going to work, right?” George asked.

 

“It didn’t work with Dad,” Fred pointed out worriedly.

 

“I remember the case,” Osborne said, sympathy layering her tone as she seemed to realise this was the second traumatic event in their family to happen recently. “But I am confident that the causes of injury are different enough this time that the stitches will hold. Now, Merissa, I want you to coax a few of those Blood Replenishing potions down her throat… lost a lot of blood…system should be able to handle it now…”

 

Draco returned to using his other Sight to keep an eye on the progress that was being made. The atmosphere in the room had changed subtly from fear to hope, and Draco felt more assuredly that Mrs Weasley was going to make it through. With the curse blocking more direct attempts at healing her recovery would probably be slower and more painful than usual, but she was going to live and that was the most important thing.

 

He continued to watch, to lend some of his magic, and to provide updates when called for, not fully conscious of how much time was passing, until finally Osborne said,

 

“Okay, I think that’s done it. She’s stable, vital signs are strong, stitches are holding, bleeding has virtually stopped, blood pressure is normal...”

 

There was a jumble of Weasleys all talking over one another following this news – Draco caught snippets like “She’s okay?” “Stitches! She’s gonna go ballistic when she finds out, I can’t wait!” “Will you be taking her to Saint Mungos?” “How long until she’s all better?” “She’s okay!” “Dad, it’s alright, Mum’s going to be fine. We haven’t lost her.” “Damn, that was close.” “Stitches, Dad, Muggle stitches saved the day!”

 

Draco worked at untangling his magic from Mrs Weasley’s core and slowly withdrawing it, making sure she could manage on her own.

 

“Healers Stone and Matheson, prep Mrs Weasley for transport to Saint Mungos. The rest of you, pick a patient – there are plenty more wounded in here that need attention.”

 

 _More wounded?_ Draco thought blearily, wondering if he should help. He wanted to help. Helping to heal was very different to trying to hurt people with his rapier wit; it felt better, felt good. He was so very tired though…

 

“…Mr Malfoy...? Your help was crucial… saved her life… thankyou… now let’s get a look at you, shall we?... bit worse for wear… just do a quick diagnostic ch…”

 

He was unconscious before his etiquette training could remind him that it was rude to drift off while someone was talking to him, the exhaustion catching up at last.

 

ooOOoo


	22. Aftermath

 

Hermione blinked again, sure that the first time she had actually still been half in dream land, but her surroundings didn’t change. She frowned a little.

 

“Mum…” she began slowly, “when you said that you were thinking of redecorating my room… I didn’t realise this is what you had in mind. No offense, but it looked better before… without the caved-in ceiling… and the puddle of red paint in the middle of the floor…”

 

“Miss Granger?”

 

Okay, not her mum then. Her mum never called her that. It was just ‘Hermione’ most of the time, or ‘’Mione’ for short, or ‘Hermione Jean Granger’ if she was in trouble, which thankfully didn’t happen very often. But if memory served – which, fuzzy as her brain felt right now, she couldn’t count on – her parents were in France, and she was at the Burrow. She was fairly sure the Burrow wasn’t supposed to look this way either, though. And who would be calling her ‘Miss Granger’?

 

It became clear at this point that she was missing something. It was like those late night study sessions, where her brain was trying to go on strike but she knew the answer was in there somewhere and she refused to let the matter go until it was recalled in full, deserving-of-top-marks-in-an-exam-paper detail.

 

When she did remember the events leading up to the blast of ruby energy that had knocked her lights out, she nearly had a heart attack.

 

Hermione sat bolt upright, momentarily heedless of the woman kneeling next to her who almost leapt out of her skin at the abrupt change from a dazed, barely conscious patient to one wide awake and panicking. “Ron! Harry?”

 

“Miss Granger, please calm down.”

 

Hermione looked to her left to locate the source of the words and noticed the Healer.

 

“Hi,” she said distractedly. “Sorry.” Her eyes shifted away again, scanning the ruin that had once been a bedroom. It was a hive of activity, but thankfully not the activity of pitched battle. In fact, there were no Death Eaters in sight, so she assumed the fight had somehow turned in their favour while she was unconscious. The aftermath didn’t look pretty, though.

 

There was Ginny, sitting on half of a mattress in the corner, being checked over by another Healer. Her foot was elevated and shards of crockery were being magically extracted from the sole, then the small wounds were being closed over by a few murmured enchantments. Ginny looked red-eyed and anxious, glancing at the door every so often as though wishing she were somewhere else.

 

“Miss Granger, I’m just going to do a quick diagnostic charm. It may feel slightly uncomfortable but it won’t hurt.”

 

“Hm?” Hermione glanced at her again. “Oh, yes, that’s fine.”  


There was Fred… No, was it George? No, wait, George was over there, so it had to be Fred. She hadn’t even realised that the twins were home, but they were being looked at by Healers as well so they must have participated in at least some of the battle. George was having splinters removed from his legs, while salve was being gently rubbed into Fred’s bruised abdominal area. Neither was making any jokes.

 

“Well, Miss Granger, aside from some lacerations and contusions… I mean, scrapes and-”

 

“I know what they mean,” Hermione interrupted automatically, still searching the room for sign of anyone else, worried about two in particular.

 

The Healer coughed. “Aside from those, you managed to escape relatively unscathed.”

 

“That’s good,” she said absently.

 

Ron! There he was, by the far wall, half concealed by a large, broken off corner of what might have been the wardrobe. Thank goodness he looked all right. He was sitting up, listening to his attendant Healer and nodding every so often, although he appeared somewhat dazed.

 

With considerable effort she forced her gaze to continue onwards and saw one more pairing of doctor and patient. Draco was unconscious, the Healer kneeling over him and muttering spells to fix his broken nose, knit together a deep gash on his forehead, spell potions into his body and heal other assorted injuries that did not appear too serious.

 

“Is that better, dear?”

 

To be honest, Hermione hadn’t even noticed as her own wounds were healed. “Oh. Yes, much.” She offered a smile. “Thank you. How is everyone else?”

 

“Most of them are doing well. Mr Malfoy over there,” she gestured, “thoroughly exhausted himself but will be fine once he gets some rest. The others have minor injuries that are easily healed and are being looked after as we speak; they should be back to full health within the hour.” Her voice sobered. “The only person we’re still worried about is Molly Weasley.”

 

Hermione’s attention suddenly sharpened. “What?”

 

“She’s alive and stabilised,” the Healer assured her quickly. “They’re transferring her to Saint Mungos for further treatment and observation.”

 

“What happened?”

 

She looked uncomfortable. “The details aren’t very pleasant, dear.”

 

Hermione’s gaze flashed to the dark red stain on the carpet.

 

“Suffice it to say,” she continued, “Senior Healer Osborne is confident that Mrs Weasley will recover…”

 

“What happened?” Hermione repeated, her jaw set with steely determination to get the answers she sought.

 

Apparently sensing that she would not be dissuaded, the Healer sighed and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, speaking softly. “I’m afraid she was hit by an Evisceration curse.”

 

Hermione’s stomach jolted. She had read about that curse in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts Library. The images in the book had left her vomiting in the girl’s bathroom for ten minutes and she had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards. The Killing Curse was bad enough, but Evisceration was designed to inflict a slow, messy and excruciating death. 

 

“She survived?” Hermione asked weakly.

 

“Yes. The curse resists healing magic, but we found a way around it. She’ll be okay.”

 

Hermione nodded, her eyes wandering back to Ron. She recognised distress in his features and knew he must have heard news of the same.

 

“Thank you. Will you excuse me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

The Healer left to assist one of her colleagues and Hermione made her way over to where Ron sat staring blankly at a debris-peppered wall. Wordlessly, she sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

 

After a long time, Ron shifted slightly, leaning into the embrace and letting out a deep sigh.

 

“We all made it,” Hermione pointed out quietly. “It was close, but everyone’s going to be all right.”

 

He nodded. “No thanks to me.”

 

She frowned, turning to look at him properly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Haven’t you noticed, Hermione? I always seem to get knocked out of the game early on, leaving everyone else to go ahead and fight without me.”

 

What, was he jealous that he was missing out on the action? Hermione knew that jealousy was something Ron struggled with at times, even when some part of him knew how irrational it was. Except, this didn’t feel the same. He looked, and sounded, almost… guilty.

 

“In first year, Harry had to face Quirrell alone. We were supposed to be his back up, but we dropped out along the way and Harry nearly died.”

 

“If you hadn’t-” she tried, but Ron continued on ruthlessly, not even hearing her.

 

“In second year, Harry had to face Tom Riddle and the Basilisk alone. I went with him down into the chamber, but we got separated. Instead of fighting to get through to him, I stayed where I was to watch Lockhart, and once again Harry nearly died.”

 

“Yes, but that was hardly your fau-”

 

“In third year, I let Pettigrew overpower me. While I was unconscious, or in the hospital wing, you and Harry were facing up against a werewolf and Dementors, and going back in time to save Sirius. I was no help at all.”

 

“Ron, you were injur-”

 

“In fourth year, I was sitting in the grandstands and having a great time betting against the Hufflepuffs, while Harry was fighting for his life in a graveyard, surrounded by Death Eaters and up against You-Know-Who himself. He had to make it out all on his own.”

 

“We had no way of knowing-”

 

“In the Department of Mysteries, I let myself get separated from you guys, let myself get hit by that stupid spell, and then I was just a gibbering idiot getting in your way! I think I was more useful to the Death Eaters than I was to Harry.”

 

“We did the best we could,” Hermione said, surprised when she actually managed to get the whole sentence out.

 

Ron glanced at her. “Well, it’s not good enough. It doesn’t cut it anymore. Harry was nearly captured this time. Mum trusted us to protect him, but I let myself be distracted for a split second and that was all it took. While I was lying around being useless, Mum had to come running back up here to try to defend Harry in my place. She nearly died, Hermione.”

 

“I know. But she didn’t, and she won’t. She’s going to be okay, Ron.”

 

“Because someone else saved her life,” Ron replied, his voice laced with self-directed fury. “Do you know who it was, Hermione?”

 

Her brow wrinkled. It seemed an odd question. “The Healers?”

 

“Well, yeah. But Malfoy helped. Apparently she would have died if it hadn’t been for him. Draco _Malfoy_ saved my mum, and I did nothing. Fat lot of good I am.”

 

“Oh Ron.” Against all logic, Hermione almost felt like smiling. “I think you’ve been hanging around Harry too long. You’ve picked up on his unfortunate habit of blaming everything on himself. If we tried, I bet we could find a reason to blame everyone here for what happened. Let’s see. We could blame Harry for being here, even though he didn’t come here of his own volition and he wanted to give himself up to spare us but we wouldn’t let him. We could blame Malfoy for bringing Harry here, even though we all agree that he did the right thing and we would have done the same in his place. We could blame whoever set up the wards around this house for not making them strong enough, even though nothing short of a blood ward could have held up against the sheer amount of power the Death Eaters brought to bear. We could blame Mr Weasley for making the Death Eaters angry by shooting off the first spell, even though they were going to attack us anyway. We could blame the defenders downstairs for letting the Death Eaters break into the house, even though they were up against overwhelming odds. You could blame me for letting myself get hit by a Stunner and…” Here she was guessing, “and breaking your concentration, letting you get hurt.”

 

The way he unconsciously hugged her tighter to his side told her that she had guessed correctly, and she felt a small burst of affection for him. It was one of those little things that proved he cared about her.

 

“We could blame you, sure,” she continued, “or Malfoy, for letting Harry’s defence slip, or Harry himself for needing to be rescued. We could blame your mum for not managing to block the whole spell that hit her.

 

“Do you get the idea? No one here is to blame. Not you, or anyone else. Do you want to know whose fault it really was? The Death Eaters and, ultimately, V-Voldemort himself. They attacked us. We fought to the best of our abilities and you know what? We won, Ronald. Together. It was a team effort and every one of us made a difference.”

 

Ron was quiet for a few moments longer, digesting everything she had said. Then he gave a small, sheepish smile. “You’re right.”

 

“Of course I am,” she sniffed. “Now, are you going to make me go over every moment in the past five years to prove to you that none of it was your fault and show you how much of a help you have been to Harry and this fight, or are you going to give my vocal chords a rest?”

 

The smile widened. “I thought you enjoyed hearing yourself talk and showing me the error of my ways.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him in a mock glare.

 

He laughed, stood up and offered her his hand. “C’mon, Hermione, let’s go find Harry.” She allowed him to pull her up and had a fleeting moment where she wanted to continue holding his hand. She dismissed it, dusting off her clothes and then moving to follow him as he continued, “You might need to give him the same speech.”

 

They left the room that looked like it had been the epicentre of a bomb explosion only to discover that the rest of the house hadn’t fared much better. Debris was scattered everywhere. There were chunks of plaster missing from the walls, doors hanging from their hinges, picture frames smashed on the floors. The handrail of the stairs was now only intermittent fragments. Anything made of glass had broken. Couches were shredded, tables and chairs were smashed. Possessions were strewn randomly across the ground.

 

Hermione watched as Ron surveyed the wreckage of his home, worried about how he might react. There was sadness in his eyes, but not despair – broken objects could be repaired, after all, and in the Wizarding world such efforts would be easier than in the Muggle world.

 

“You folks Weasleys?”

 

An Auror had just appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and was looking at them expectantly. Hermione looked to Ron, and he gestured to his hair with a half-hearted smirk.

 

“Right. Well, I understand that your parents have left for Saint Mungos…”

 

There was flicker of pain in Ron’s eyes. “Yeah.”

 

The man nodded. “Usually I would speak to them, but since they are unavailable you will have to do for now. I am Auror Richard Lowsley, in charge of the unit that was dispatched here to deal with this situation. It is my duty to inform you that we have taken 26 of the enemy combatants into custody pending trial. We have also removed the bodies of one Fenrir Greyback, one Jeremy Helling and one Timothy Weldor from the property, which will be buried outside Azkaban fortress unless claimed by kin within three days.”

 

Hermione blinked in surprise at the news that Death Eaters had died in the battle, but she couldn’t say she was sorry. Greyback, especially, was notorious.

 

“There were more Death Eaters than that,” Ron said.

 

“From the extent of the damage I had assumed as much. It is likely that any of them that were left conscious would have Disapparated from the scene and may have taken a few of their fellows with them.”

 

The fact that many had been left behind didn’t come as a shock to Hermione – there was no loyalty among Death Eaters, except perhaps to Voldemort and their own selfish ambitions.

 

Ron sighed. “At least we got 29 of ‘em. Are you guys gonna make sure that _these_ ones don’t escape?”

 

“Ron,” Hermione admonished him quietly, as the Auror looked to be struggling to maintain a civil countenance. From what she had been reading in the Prophet, Hermione knew that the Aurors had been copping a lot of abuse recently. Their job wasn’t easy and, while they had to be doing the best they could, the panicked population tended not to see the good that they did, only the bad that they failed to prevent.

 

“Sorry,” Ron muttered grudgingly. “It’s been a hard day.”

 

“That’s fine. Now, we’ve gotten a few of the basic facts from Mr Potter, but we will need a more detailed report from your parents about the incident when they are available to give it, for our records you understand. Please let them know we will be calling on them at a later date.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“That’s all for now. Good evening, Mr Weasley.” The Auror offered a nod and took his leave of them.

 

“Blimey,” Ron said once the man was out of earshot. “26 arrests. I bet that’s more than they’ve made since the Department of Mysteries and we did most of the grunt work with that one, too. Maybe we’re the ones who should be getting paid.”

 

She frowned at him. “Ron, that’s hardly fair. It’s not like Death Eaters wander around with their masks on, asking to be arrested. Unless they’re attacking en masse, like they did tonight, I imagine they are very difficult to identify and even harder to pin with charges.”

 

Ron grunted. “Well, Harry isn’t down here. Outside, you think? Or further upstairs?”

 

“Up,” she said after a moment of thought. Normally Harry would take refuge outdoors, but with all the Auror activity it would hardly be a quiet haven. She could imagine him hesitating at the door of his bedroom, wanting to join them but irrationally not feeling welcome and continuing on up the stairs.

 

It turned out that she had guessed correctly. They found Harry on the fourth floor fixing windows. Hermione was proud to notice that he was using the ‘Reparo’ spell she had taught him, and quite expertly, too.

 

He must have heard them coming, because without turning from his task he said, “I’ve already been clucked and tutted over by one of you Healers, thank you all the same.”

 

Hermione giggled. “We’re not here to ‘cluck’ or ‘tut’ Harry, but we can leave if you want.”

 

He spun quickly, almost as though he was afraid they _would_ leave. “Hermione! Ron! You guys are all right!”

 

“Fit as a fiddle,” Ron replied.

 

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“Dad says it’s a phrase Muggles use all the time,” Ron explained with a shrug. “Makes no sense to me, though. Isn’t a fiddle an instrument? How can an instrument be fit? Barmy, if you ask me.”

 

Hermione smiled helplessly and even Harry’s lips twitched.

 

“And you, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assured them. “One of the Death Eaters clonked me on the head, but Madam Pomfrey must have regrown my skull back thicker than it was before because I didn’t end up with a concussion or anything.”

 

Emotion flared in her gut at even the casual reminder of Harry’s near-fatal injury. First him, and then Mrs Weasley. People she cared about kept getting hurt. Hermione felt like she was living in almost constant fear for her friends’ lives, even if most of the time she was able to push her worry to the back of her mind.

 

“Hermione, what is it?” Harry asked, evidently reading something in her expression, suddenly terrified. His eyes flicked to Ron. “Is Mrs Weasley-”

 

“Oh, no, she’s going to be fine,” Hermione told him, trying to rein back the onslaught of emotions. “I’m just – I’m really glad you’re okay.” The tears didn’t want to be supressed, welling up in her eyes.

 

Harry stepped forward, an awkwardness and uncertainty to the movement, as though he wasn’t sure what to do. She made up his mind for him, closing the distance and throwing her arms around him.

 

She hugged him tightly, only realising a few moments in that he had frozen and his breathing had virtually stopped.

 

Hermione hastily released him and moved back, giving him plenty of space, babbling an apology. “Harry, I’m sorry, I forgot, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“Don’t, Hermione.” He sounded pained. “It’s not you…” He ran his fingers through his hair, green eyes filled with distress. “God, I don’t mean to – to do this to you guys. I know you’re not – I just can’t…” He backed away and turned to fixing the windows again. “Oh. I did these already.” He moved to the next room and repaired the broken panes of glass in there, before moving down the stairs to the next level.

 

Hermione and Ron followed him. “Harry, mate, you don’t have to do this you know.”

 

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed. “We can fix it later. You should get some rest.  It’s late; you’ve got to be tired.”

 

He frowned at them. “I shouldn’t go to sleep until the house is clean. Fixed, I mean. Everything’s broken.”

 

Cleaning. Hermione remembered what Draco had told them the first day they’d arrived at the Burrow – how Harry had been ‘worked to the bone’ with lots of chores while he had been living at his relatives’ house, and how he had been punished if he didn’t finish the list. The thought made her angry, and she especially didn’t like the idea that this seemed to be a throwback to habits beaten into her best friend from early childhood. She wanted to make him stop somehow, but it wasn’t as though she could physically restrain him and she didn’t think trying to talk him out of it would work either – after all, the house would need to be fixed up eventually.

 

Harry skirted the second floor, mumbling something about doing it later. Hermione suspected that he was trying to avoid any extra company, since a passing glance showed her that the Healers and rest of the Weasley clan were still in what was left of Fred and George’s room.  She supposed it might also have been a mentality of his own bedroom being the last priority – another throwback, or just selflessness on his part?

 

The last two levels were a complete shamble. After exchanging glances with each other, coming to a joint conclusion that Harry wasn’t going to stop any time soon, Ron and Hermione started to help. Harry appeared momentarily surprised by their assistance, but soon relaxed and let them work at his side.

 

Even with the three of them working on it and the use of magic to aid them, the task took a long time. When Hermione fixed the Weasley family clock, the arrows all moved to point at ‘Time to sleep’ and her drooping eyelids seemed to agree. Harry was focused and resolute, though. He paid particular attention to the kitchen, actually managing to make it sparkle and shine by using Muggle cleaning methods whenever he didn’t know the right magical incantation.

 

They repaired the last sofa in the lounge room at some ridiculous hour of the morning and Harry was showing every inclination of going back up the stairs to start fixing up the second floor. Hermione was having none of it. They were all exhausted, but Harry seemed unwilling to admit it.

 

She was doing this for his own good.

 

She pointed her wand at him and cast quietly, “Quiesco.”

 

He looked at her, puzzled. Then his face slackened, his eyes slipped shut and he toppled back gently onto the couch.

 

Ron stared at her, his expression a mixture of admiration, fear and relief. “You spelled him!”

 

Hermione shrugged self-consciously, conjuring a blanket to cover Harry with. “Well how else were we supposed to get him to go to sleep?”

 

Ron sank into a newly-mended armchair with a tired sigh. “Good point.”

 

Hermione noticed that Ron was making himself comfortable, as though he wasn’t intending to move any time soon. “Aren’t you going to go to bed?” she asked in surprise. She hadn’t thought Ron would need prompting to sleep too. He looked as fatigued as she felt.

 

“What, and leave Harry here by himself? I wouldn’t put it past those Death Eating bastards to sneak back here while we’ve got our guard down, thinking it was all over. I don’t want to risk it, especially after Mum…” He trailed off.

 

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly. The possibility of another attack so soon hadn’t even occurred to her, but it did make strategic sense. And Ron, in another of his random moments of brilliance, had been the one to pick up on that fact. “You’re right,” she told him, quite proudly. “So I guess we should stay up and keep an eye on Harry, just in case?”

 

Ron yawned, rubbing at his eyes but then sitting up straighter. “Guess so.”

 

Hermione sat at the end of Harry’s sofa, near his feet; she absently pulled off his shoes and set them aside so he could rest more comfortably and then let herself relax a bit into the back cushions. Her eyelids drooped.

 

“Hermione,” Ron exhaled, bringing her attention back. She looked to him expectantly and after a moment he continued in a soft voice, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

 

She quirked a small smile at him. “You, too.”

 

“The pattern’s been broken, you realise,” Ron said. At her puzzled expression he elaborated, “You-Know-Who has abandoned his one-well-planned-attack-on-Harry-per-year plan in favour of a batter-them-frequently-until-their-defences-wear-down approach. It hasn’t even been two months yet since the Department of Mysteries and Harry’s been attacked by Death Eaters twice.”

 

“You think the attacks will happen more often now?”

 

Ron shrugged. “Dunno, but it makes sense to me. You-Know-Who is crazy, but I don’t think he’s stupid – sooner or later he was going to catch onto the fact that the longer the gap between attempts on Harry’s life, the more time Harry has to build up his skills and knowledge to better thwart him.”

 

Following this oddly insightful speech, Hermione gave Ron a searching look, which made him flush with embarrassment.

 

“I may have… might have… maybe… done some reading up on battle strategy and tactics.”

 

Hermione felt a flare of worry in her gut – was there some homework that she didn’t know about? “For Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

 

He looked even more uncomfortable. “Uh… sort of… not exactly for the class though…”

 

She frowned at him, not understanding.

 

“Well, there were books on it in the Room of Requirement when we had the DA in there. I, uh, borrowed some… you know… thought it might come in handy. And it’s a lot like chess, really…”

 

Hermione digested this highly unusual information for a moment and then broke into a wide grin. Ron had done extra reading, without being told. Ron. Reading voluntarily. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to giggle at this strange turn of the tables or kiss him.

 

 _Oh dear, I_ must _be tired,_ she thought. Neither reaction was particularly wise and she didn’t have enough energy for either anyway, which was probably a good thing.

 

“I’m sure it will come in handy,” she said. “And if, as you say, the attacks do become more frequent, we’ll just have to make sure we keep up Constant Vigilance.”

 

He smiled at the use of Professor Moody’s favourite phrase, but there was a grimness to his expression. Most people thought that Moody was paranoid and somewhat crazy, suspecting everyone, trusting no one and being constantly on watch for enemy attack. Yet here they were, ready to take on his advice because, for the best friends of the Chosen One, his was a decent philosophy to live by. Live, hopefully, being the operative work.

 

As quiet settled between them, Hermione’s thoughts began to drift a little. She relived the battle in her mind, reviewing which defences had worked and which hadn’t, cataloguing new spells and methods she had seen employed by both friend and foe, running through scenarios of what she could have done differently.

 

It was easier to concentrate if she closed her eyes; she could picture everything more clearly that way…

 

Like how the Death Eaters had been positioned when they first Apparated in, the formation they had adopted when charging the house… Ron’s jaw set in determination as he faced the enemy…  That softer expression he wore when he looked at her and said he was glad she was all right…

 

A slight, fond smile curved her lips.

 

Half-formed images continued to roll through her mind, becoming hazy and indistinct until they faded altogether into a soft blackness.

 

“… made up my mind.”

 

“… overreacting!”

 

“… I’m not… remember what you said, but… no other option then…. Now I do, and I’m going to use it…”

 

“I’ll stop you, Potter.”

 

 _Potter?_ Hermione picked up on the name, knew it was important somehow, but it was a struggle to regain lucidity.

 

“No… won’t…know it’s the best thing…everyone.”

 

“…all disagree with you on that…”

 

“…my choice.”

 

“…do you propose to get there, exactly?...attacked… you even get out of Ottery St Catch…”

 

 _Attacked?_ Attacked wasn’t good. Why was Harry going to be attacked?

 

“…not stupid…thought about…already…have a safe way to do it…”

 

“…don’t care… won’t let you…”

 

“Malfoy, I’m leaving, get used to it.”

 

_Leaving?_

 

Hermione jerked awake. She was shocked to see that it was light outside – she hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But she couldn’t dwell; the immediate situation demanded her attention. Harry was facing off against Malfoy. His Hogwarts trunk (looking a little worse for wear) was next to him and there was a resolute expression on his face.

 

“What’s going on?” she asked, standing up quickly and choosing to ignore the stiffness in her neck from sleeping in such an awkward position.

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “ _Now_ you wake up? I could have used your powers for persuasion ten minutes ago when Potter first came up with his preposterous plan.”

 

“What plan?”

 

“I didn’t come up with it ten minutes ago,” Harry retorted. “I’ve been thinking idly about it since Dumbledore came by and I made up my mind last night. I would have left earlier if _someone-_ ” He scowled at Hermione “-hadn’t knocked me unconscious with a spell.”

 

Malfoy’s mouth twisted into an amused smirk. “Good one, Granger.”

 

“What do you mean you would have left?” she demanded of Harry. “Everyone here risked their life to keep you safe, and now you’re just going to run away?”

 

His green eyes smouldered. “I know what you did for me, Hermione. I know what Mrs Weasley suffered for me. And I know that you will all probably be called on to fight for me again sometime in the future. But this battle, right here, didn’t have to happen. It could have been avoided if I wasn’t so _damn_ selfish-” He sucked in a breath. “Dumbledore was right about me. I put you all in danger by standing here, so I’m going to go-”

 

“Not back to the Dursleys!” Hermione shrieked in horror.

 

A shudder ran through Harry’s body and a haunted look passed through his eyes. “No,” he answered quietly. “I couldn’t… no. I’m going to Grimmauld Place. I own it now, Dumbledore considered it safe enough for the Order last year and no one else will be in danger as long as I’m there.”

 

“But Harry-”

 

“Tell the Weasleys thanks, and that I’m sorry. I’ll see you guys back at school.”

 

“Harry, let’s talk about-”

 

“Kreacher!”

 

A loud _crack_ announced the arrival of Sirius’s house elf. Hermione didn’t miss how Harry had flinched at the sound, or the glare that Kreacher levelled at him even as he gave a mocking bow. “Nasty horrible Master Harry Potter called for Kreacher?”

 

 _My best friend owns a house elf,_ Hermione thought. She knew that it had not been Harry’s idea and that he would prefer that it was otherwise, but still, he was supposed to be the secretary of S.P.E.W, and the fact that he was perpetuating the cycle… It went against their principles. Dumbledore hadn’t given Harry much of a choice in the matter, though.

 

“Yes, I did,” Harry responded, a slight twist of distaste on his features. Hermione wondered why he had summoned the elf. She didn’t make the connection between Harry’s desire to leave, laws against underage magic and a house-elf’s ability to Apparate through wards until it was too late.

 

“I want you to take me to Number 12 Grimmauld Place,” Harry ordered, holding out one hand for Kreacher to take and grasping the handle of his trunk with the other.

 

“Wait-” Hermione started to say, lurching forward. Malfoy was faster, snatching Harry’s sleeve even as another loud _crack_ sounded.

 

All three of them vanished.

 

There was an incoherent moan from the armchair, and then bleary blue eyes flickered open.

 

“Whazgoinon?” Ron asked.

 

ooOOoo

 


	23. A Grim Old Place

 

Pain lanced through his nerves, but Draco was at least grateful that he hadn’t managed to get himself Splinched this time. Tagging along without warning or permission on an Apparation was risky at best, but he hadn’t had more than a split second to make the choice to latch on. Quite frankly, he had been more concerned with not letting Potter go off alone than weighing up the safety issues.

 

“Malfoy…” Potter growled in warning.

 

Draco released Potter’s sleeve and stepped away to give him some breathing space, knowing how he hated being in close proximity with anyone these days, but he didn’t back off completely. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

 

Potter’s mouth opened, presumably to say something angry, insulting or alienating, but before he could get a word out there was a sudden explosion of noise.

 

“FILTH! SCUM! BEFOULING MY HOUSE, INVADING MY HOME, BESMIRCHING MY FAMILY’S HONOUR! OFFSPRING OF SWINE, SPAWN OF DIRT, MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS-”

 

“Ex _cuse_ me?” Draco’s pureblood pride slammed back to him in full force. How _dare_ this unseen person call him such names! He was a Malfoy, and they would show him the respect he deserved or he would teach them the error of their ways. “You dishonour your own family name by calling out insults from the shadows like the coward you are. Come out here and just try to call me a mudblood to my face! The Malfoys do not suffer fools who would treat us with such disrespect.”

 

Potter appeared visibly startled when the dingy corridor suddenly fell silent. “Wow. I’ve never seen anything short of a spell shut her up before.”

 

“Who?” Draco questioned.

 

“Mistress,” Kreacher responded, at the same time as Potter said with a grimace “Sirius’s mother.”

 

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Great Aunt Walburga? But she died when I was five years old; we attended her funeral.”

 

“Poor mistress,” Kreacher bemoaned. “She was wounded so by the loss of her only son, Good Master Regulus…”

 

“Sirius was her son too,” Potter argued.

 

“Disowned!” Kreacher croaked. “That no good, nasty horrible runaway Blood Traitor. Dead to her he was.” A sly grin stretched his leathery lips. “Dead to the whole world, now.”

 

Potter snarled and lunched forward to seize the house-elf around the throat. Draco caught him around the middle and pulled him back, suspecting that once the heat of the moment had passed Potter would be horrified with himself if he murdered the little creature.

 

But the moment wasn’t over yet.

 

Potter bucked wildly in his grip, twisted and socked him in the jaw with more force than Draco had realised he was capable of mustering. Draco stumbled backwards and hit the wall. Potter dropped back into a half crouch, fists held ready before him, a primal, animalistic glare of twisted fear and determination in his eyes.

 

Draco swore under his breath, realising that he had just proven himself to be one of the world’s biggest idiots. He had grabbed Potter from behind. After what had been done to him, that was tantamount to declaring his intention to take up where Dudley had left off.

 

Draco edged away, holding his hands palm up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you; I just didn’t want you to do something that you would regret later. You know I won’t hurt you.”

 

Potter’s eyes followed his movements warily, just like a crup backed into a corner.

 

“Harry. I won’t hurt you, I promise. You’re safe with me.”

 

The guarded look in those green eyes remained for a few seconds more, then faltered and fell away. Potter sighed and slumped tiredly against the wall.

 

“Sorry,” Draco repeated in a quiet voice.

 

Potter waved off the apology. “The screaming of your Great Aunt came from her portrait, by the way,” he explained as a way of diverting attention from what had just happened. “She doesn’t take kindly to intruders.”

 

That was an understatement; it was closer to full screaming hysteria. “No kidding.”

 

“Will that be all that the nasty horrible Potter brat wants from Kreacher?” the house-elf asked.

 

“Yes. Thank you,” Potter added stiffly. The elf _pop_ ped away.

 

“So… nice place you have here,” Draco said, looking around at the peeling wallpaper and faded carpet of the hallway, all dimly lit by soot-blackened gas lamps.

 

Potter gave a snort without humour. “It’s horrible, though we tried our best to clean it up a bit.” A pause. “Sirius hated it here.”

 

 _Oh, this is a wonderful idea,_ Draco thought sarcastically _. Letting Potter stay in a house that will be a constant reminder of his godfather._ _Just brilliant._

“Do you like it here?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“But you came anyway.”

 

“You know why I did. I’m not going to explain it again,” Potter said irritably. “You should go back to the Burrow; Kreacher can take you.”

 

Draco shook his head. “I was only welcome there because you were staying with them too. Now that you’ve up and left, they wouldn’t want me around.”

 

“They wouldn’t refuse you,” Potter argued. “They’re better people than that, which you should well know by now. Besides, you fought alongside them and you saved Mrs Weasley’s life.”

 

Draco dismissed the assertion that the Weasleys might actually be inclined to like him, unable to decide whether he should be pleased or repulsed by the idea. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not letting you stay here by yourself, end of conversation.”

 

Potter frowned at him, annoyance clearly displayed on his features and almost (but not entirely) masking the faint signs of gratitude and relief.

 

“Well, Potter, you might as well give me the tour-”

 

“THEIF!”

 

Potter jolted at the sudden loud yell and Draco’s wand came up into his hand. A _crash_ and a _bang_ swiftly followed, chased by the sounds of someone swearing at the top of their lungs. Great Aunt Walburga added her shrieks to the cacophony and Draco clapped his non-wand hand over an ear even as he ran after Potter to locate the source of the commotion.

 

The first thing Draco saw was Kreacher, hopping up and down in a howling rage at an animated pile of rags and riches. Closer inspection revealed that the house-elf was actually yelling at a man; squat, dirty, with straggly ginger hair and bandy legs, heavy with the stench of tobacco. In his arms was an assortment of valuable items, likely filched from the house. Well, no wonder the elf was angry. Part of a house-elf’s responsibilities to its home was to protect the Master’s belongings from covetous hands.

 

“Mundungus?” Potter exclaimed in surprise.

 

“You know this low-life?” Draco asked.  


“He’s part of the Order. What are you doing here, Mundungus?”

 

The man looked to be scrambling for an explanation that was anything other than the truth. “Uh, um, I’m ‘ere on – on Order business! Yer, that’s righ’, Dumbledore sent me ta-”

 

“Nick as much of Sirius’s stuff as you could?” Potter cut in, anger returning to his voice as he caught sight of the silver goblets, polished mirror, golden necklace, fancy picture frames, ornate daggers and other objects that Mundungus had in a haphazard grip.

 

“What, this stuff? Nah, yeh got me all wrong, ‘Arry… I was jus’… moving it around a bit… to make the place a lil more ‘sthetically pleasin’, yeh know?”

 

Potter’s brow furrowed into a deep glare and his grip tightened on his wand. “Do _you_ want to know something about me, Dung? I don’t like being lied to.”

 

The thief hefted an innocent expression onto his face. “I ain’t ly-”

 

Potter took an aggressive step forward and Draco could tell that he wasn’t bluffing. Apparently Mundungus could tell, too (so maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he looked after all) because he hastily stumbled backwards out of reach. “All right, all right, I’m goin’! Blimey!” He started to skirt around them.

 

Not one to be taken for a fool, Potter snapped, “ _Without_ the stuff you were going to steal, Dung, or I’ll hex you!” He brandished his wand for emphasis.

 

A loud clatter echoed around them as Mundungus dropped everything and high-tailed it out of there. Walburga’s shrieks continued until the front door had slammed shut behind them. In the comparative silence that followed Kreacher said haughtily, “Good riddance.”

 

Potter’s breathing gradually began to slow, though the anger took longer to fade from his features. Draco had noticed the way he was still referring to this place and everything in it as belonging to Sirius Black; he was more upset by the idea of Sirius being robbed in his absence than the fact that he himself was actually the person the thief had intended to steal from. Even after two months, a part of Potter still hadn’t fully come to terms with the fact that his godfather was gone. It would take time, Draco knew, especially since there was so much else at the moment that Potter had to deal with.

 

Potter’s fists clenched and unclenched a few times, then he sighed and bent to pick up the dropped items. “Kreacher, do you want to put these back somewhere safe?”

 

The elf appeared torn between his usual loathing for his master and his desire to actually carry out the task bidden him. It had been couched as a request, so technically he could refuse to do it.

 

“Yes,” he croaked, “sir.”

 

Potter looked momentarily surprised by the honorific, but then he gave a tentative smile and passed the goblets he had retrieved to the elf. “Thanks Kreacher.”

 

Being helpful still didn’t quite come naturally to Draco; he just watched as Potter collected the other Black family artefacts from the floor, until a gleam of gold caught his eye. He crouched down and delicately pulled it out from under a picture frame. A long gold chain came first – untangled as would be expected if it had been created by a skilled magical craftsman – and then the pendant.

 

No… not a pendant. A locket. Draco turned it over in his palm and his breath hitched in his throat.

 

The large, ornate ‘S’, shaped as a serpent and inlaid with glittering green stones, was stunning. But it wasn’t just the locket’s aesthetic attributes that interested him. Unless he was very much mistaken, this very locket – this locket he was holding, that had nearly been stolen, that had been dropped on the floor but escaped without so much as a dent or a scratch in the heavy gold – was Salazar Slytherin’s lost heirloom. The locket that had been passed down to his descendants for generations and then somehow vanished into obscurity. _This_ locket. It alone was probably worth more than this entire house, possibly even more. For a true Slytherin, it was virtually priceless.

 

All this flashed through his mind in a few seconds and he felt a sudden, powerful urge to slip it into his pocket while Potter’s back was turned.

 

“Where-where did this come from?” he asked hoarsely.

 

Potter and the elf both looked at him. Potter’s response was to shrug and say, “Dunno. We found it last summer, but it’s useless anyway – it won’t open,” while Kreacher suddenly became hostile.

 

“That’s Master Regulus’s locket! Give it back!” He snatched for it and Draco held it up out of reach. A mere house-elf had no right to talk to him that way and certainly no right to keep the locket. Draco was the only Slytherin here. Sirius Black hadn’t even been a Slytherin. It should belong to Draco. It was only fitting that he should have it. And Potter considered it useless, so it wasn’t as though he would miss it.

 

Was it really broken though? Draco frowned and tried to pry it open, to no avail. He wondered what was in it. An original, miniature portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself, perhaps? That would be valuable indeed! His continued his efforts to trick it into opening were just as ineffective, which led him to the conclusion that he would have to use magic.

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching out with his Sight to discover what, if any, spells were in place to keep the golden doors of the locket shut. For a moment all he saw was blackness and he thought that had to mean there was no magic present. But when he looked closer, he realised what he was actually seeing was a dark, tumultuous storm of power. It seemed familiar somehow, like he’d seen it somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it. The storm was hiding something, though. He probed deeper, despite the resistance, feeling a deep sense of foreboding building within him.

 

Green slashed across his vision.

 

He recoiled, but couldn’t retreat fully. The storm swirled and roiled, parted. He saw a pulsing mass of intertwined green and black and red for the briefest of seconds, and then the darkness swarmed in, surrounding him. He felt barbed threads brushing against his magic, trying to hurt him, to ensnare him. He armoured his own thread, made it slippery, tried to draw it back into himself. Images, sensations, of pain, anger, bleeding, ripping, tearing, dying, assaulted his mind. He cried out – in agony, in revulsion – and gave an almighty _wrench_ on his magic, simultaneously slamming the door shut on his Sight.

 

The locket dropped from his hand.

 

He gasped in relief as his mind cleared and he began to feel like himself again.

 

Kreacher snatched up the locket and cradled it protectively in his gnarled hands. “Bad Draco Malfoy Master, sir! Mustn’t touch Good Master Regulus’s locket. Good Master Regulus entrusted it to Kreacher.”

 

Draco raised his wand and pointed it at the elf. It was shaking slightly. “That thing is _vile._ It should be destroyed, not coveted.”

 

Kreacher cocked his head to the side, looking at him thoughtfully. “Master Draco Malfoy sir would destroy it?”

 

Draco didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

 

Potter seemed puzzled more than anything. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

 

“It is – unnatural. Wrong,” Draco explained stiffly. “It should not exist. It goes against the natural order of things. It’s _revolting_.”

 

“But it’s just a locket,” Potter said bemusedly.

 

“On the outside, maybe,” Draco conceded. “But inside…” He shuddered.  


“What?”

 

Draco struggled to get past the gut reactions he’d had and find a rational explanation for what he had Seen. He began slowly. “It was like… I was using my Sight to look into a person, whose soul was… dark, and twisted and mad and… wounded, almost. Someone’s soul, or a part of it, and some of their magic… but trapped in that locket, like it had been deliberately torn from its host and stashed there.”

 

Potter looked nauseated. “People, wizards, can do that?”

 

“Not by any magic I know of,” Draco said darkly. “It sounds like magic blacker than pitch, and it felt even more evil than that. It can’t be healthy and I think it could be dangerous. We should destroy it.”

 

“And you?” Potter asked the house-elf, who had been oddly quiet. “Why aren’t you kicking up a huge fuss about this? Malfoy is talking about destroying the locket that belonging to your ‘Good Master Regulus’ and you’re okay with that?”

 

Kreacher nodded solemnly. “Good Master Regulus wished it to be destroyed. He asked Kreacher to destroy it for him, just before the nasty things in the water murdered poor Master. Kreacher tried. But nothing Kreacher did was good enough. Kreacher failed his Master. Kreacher is a bad house-elf!” He started beating himself around the head with a goblet.

 

Genuine distress flashed through Potter’s eyes. “No, don’t do that. Please don’t do that. We’ll help you destroy the locket, okay? Just don’t hurt yourself anymore. It’s not your fault you couldn’t do what Regulus asked. There would have been magic preventing it. It’s not your fault. Some things are just out of our control.”

 

Kreacher stopped his self-punishment to stare at Potter with wide, bulbous eyes. “Harry Potter sir would help Kreacher?”

 

Potter shrugged. “Well, Malfoy says it’s evil and you both want to get rid of it, so I guess we’ll do our best.”

 

Kreacher pondered this for a few moments and then held out the locket. “Thank you, Master Harry Potter sir.”

 

“Sure thing,” Potter replied, a little uncomfortably. He took the locket. A strange expression came over his face and Draco wondered if he was sensing a little of what Draco had seen earlier. His eyes almost seemed to take on a red glow for a split second, but Draco blinked and it was gone. He supposed he must have imagined it.

 

“Alright, where do we start?” Potter asked.

 

The three of them moved to the empty basement and for the next few hours they took turns trying different spells on the locket in an attempt to destroy it, or even just crack it open. Nothing they tried managed to so much as scratch the surface, not even a few of the somewhat Darker spells that Draco had picked up from watching his father in a rage and thought were worth a shot.

 

Kreacher started pulling dejectedly on his ears, Potter sat down in the corner and continued casting half-heartedly from there, and Draco was on the verge of labelling the endeavour a lost cause and giving up altogether. It was at this point that they heard the faint sound of knocking, a door opening, and then a female voice calling out in a tone of extreme irritation: “HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

 

Now, if someone sounding that aggravated had been yelling at _him,_ Draco might have felt a twinge of consternation. Depending on the person, he might even feel inclined to hide from them until their annoyance had the chance to abate a bit. It was very unlikely that he would have smiled.

 

But, inexplicably, that is exactly what Potter did. He heard the yell and then _smiled_ and stood up, practically bounding to the stairs leading out of the basement.

 

“Crazy Gryffindors,” Draco muttered, following said crazy person out into the front hall. An entourage of three was there to greet them: Granger and the two youngest Weasleys. The women of the group appeared to be the most infuriated with Potter, while Ron looked to have been dragged along against his will and seemed reluctant to join in the confrontation that was surely coming.

 

Granger caught sight of them. “Harry!” she said shrilly, in what Draco had come to think of as her best mother-telling-her-children-off voice. “If you think that you can just-”

 

“Hermione, you have brilliant timing,” Potter interrupted brightly. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

 

“I am?” She had been thrown off guard by the cheerful welcome, no doubt expecting him to put up a fight over their presence here.

 

“Yes. We need your help with solving a problem. I think it will take a lot of research and a highly intelligent mind like yours to work it out.”

 

Granger looked both flattered and intrigued, almost despite herself. “Research?”

 

Ginny scowled and slapped Granger on the arm with the back of her hand. “Hermione, we’re mad at him, remember?”

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Potter agreed amicably. “You can all yell at me later, but first will you guys help us with this?” He dangled the locket from his fingers.

 

“That old thing?” Ron asked.

 

Potter proceeded to explain everything they knew and suspected about the locket, including which spells it had proven to be impervious to.

 

“Blimey,” Ron was heard to say on a number of occasions.

 

Granger listened attentively and Draco could imagine that she was memorising all the key details so she would have a baseline to work from when she started her research.

 

“I’m going to need books,” Granger said finally, once Potter had run out of information to give them. “The Restricted Section at Hogwarts might have a few books that cover topics like this, but we don’t have access to the school collection during the holidays…” Unconsciously, she gave a slight pout.

 

“That must make summers horrible for you,” Draco quipped.

 

Ron smirked in amusement but Granger didn’t notice, answering absently, “Well, I order from Flourish and Blotts to tide me over until school starts again, but I don’t think they stock the sort of books we’ll need.”

 

That gave Draco an idea. “Borgin & Bourke’s might.”

 

“The creepy shop in Knockturn Alley that deals in Dark stuff?” Potter asked.

 

“Yes, that is one way of putting it, but I think the owners prefer ‘confidential valuation service for unusual and ancient wizarding artefacts’…” Draco narrowed his eyes at the so-called Golden Boy. “How do you know of it?”

 

Potter shrugged sheepishly. “First time I used Floo Powder I got lost… wound up going a grate too far and ended up in Borgin and Burkes. I, ah, saw you and your dad there.”

 

“Funny, I don’t seem to remember that.”

 

Potter coughed. “I hid in a cabinet until you left,” he admitted.

 

Draco snorted. “Very brave.”

 

“If you saw me, all covered in soot with broken glasses and no idea where I was, I knew you would take the mickey out of me and probably tell the whole school.”

 

“Paranoid.”

 

“Was I wrong?”

 

Draco snickered. “No. It would have been too good an opportunity to pass up.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Anyway…” Granger cut in, evidently feeling they had strayed too far off topic. “I don’t think we want to actually _buy_ books like that… It wouldn’t reflect well on us, if word got out somehow.”

 

It was ironic, really. Draco’s father was obsessed with image, but he had always felt the need to look good for the Light-sided pansies as well as for those of his ‘colleagues’ who had Darker tastes. It had been a delicate balance, carefully maintained… until the Dark Lord had returned and demanded more blatant allegiance. Lucius had been forced to play his hand too early, and it had resulted in his arrest and imprisonment.

 

For the first time in a while, Draco found himself thinking about his father; wondering how he was doing, how he was being treated, whether he missed them, what he would think about the decisions that Draco had made that were so contrary to Lucius’s own choices. Draco had been so pre-occupied recently and, if he was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he _wanted_ to be pre-occupied. Thinking about his father made his head hurt. Growing up, his father had been everything to him; a parent, a role model, an idol. For years Draco had wanted to be a mirror image, and everything he did was essentially building toward that goal. But in Lucius’s absence everything had changed and Draco didn’t know where that left them.

 

So, rather than think about it, he refocused his attention on the current conversation. Potter was arguing that it was no one’s business but theirs what they bought where, while Ginny was pointing out that the newspapers would have a field day with a story blaring the headline ‘Champion of the Light Revealed to be Practitioner of the Dark Arts’, at which point Ron suggested that most people considered the _Prophet_ to be made up of a bunch of plonkers after last year’s mess and Granger exclaimed “Ron, _language_!” even as Ginny launched into a spiel about the manipulative power of the media.

 

“Well if we don’t buy the books, what is the alternative?” Draco interrupted. “My house might have something useful, but I don’t think waltzing back there to browse through the library would be the wisest move for me right now.”

 

“You have a library in your house?” Granger breathed with distinct undertones of both awe and jealousy.

 

“It is one of the most extensive private collections in all of Britain,” Draco told her proudly, then deflated a bit. “But like I said, it is no more accessible to us than Hogwarts library –even less so, since we would probably all end up dead if we tried to break into the Manor.”

 

“I vote against that, personally,” Ron said.

 

“What, then?” Potter asked, frustrated by the lack of answers.

 

“Well, what about here?” Draco suggested. “A library is something every self-respecting, ancient pureblood family-” He noticed that Ginny had bristled and Ron was looking sullen, inspiring his recollection of the fact that they were part of an ancient pureblood family which, among other things, did not have a vast book collection to its name, and swiftly changed the end of his sentence “-with misplaced priorities and an arrogant, ostentatious streak would have.” It was a poor save, but the Weasleys settled so it must have worked. “Is there one here?”

 

Potter, Ron and Ginny shook their heads, but Granger answered, “Sirius said that there used to be one on the third floor but the room somehow vanished.”

 

“Like the Room of Requirement?” Potter asked.

 

“Maybe,” Granger answered doubtfully. “There’s only a blank wall there now. I spent a long time standing in front of it last summer, willing the library to come back… But it didn’t.”

 

“Well, no harm in giving it another go,” Draco said. Since they had nothing else to go on at the moment, no one disagreed with him and they all trooped up the stairs. The third floor corridor had doors spaced evenly along it on either side, leading into various rooms that had mostly been converted to bedrooms, but there was a discrepancy. On the left, about halfway down where according to the pattern there should have been a door, there was only a blank wall. They stopped in front of it.

 

Ron proceeded to run his fingers over the plaster, searching for anything hidden or disguised that might open the ostensibly non-existent door. Granger stared at it unblinkingly, her face twisted in concentration. Ginny rapped her knuckles against the wall, listening to hear if it sounded hollow. Draco ran through a list in his mind of all the methods used in Malfoy Manor to hide rooms and chambers from visitors…

 

“That’s it,” he said, suddenly understanding. They looked at him. “The house will only share its secrets with the rightful owner or heir. It’s the same at home.”

 

“Malfoy, I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense,” Granger said apologetically. “Why couldn’t Sirius find the room, if that were true?”

 

He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe the protection is three-fold. You have to be a rightful owner or heir, you have to know about the room and the protection around it, and you have to want to get in.  Did Sirius ever try particularly hard to find the library, or was it just you?”

 

“Just me,” Granger admitted. “I don’t think Sirius cared very much that it was missing. He said most of the books in there were obscenely prejudiced against Muggle-borns, filled to the brim with Dark magic and totally disgusting.”

 

“There you go, then,” Draco said smugly. “So the four of us should stand back and let Potter have a shot at it.”

 

They did and Potter stepped forward. His brow wrinkled as he directed his thoughts to the wall, or more accurately the magic that had created the illusion of a wall, and then his eyes widened. “Whoa!”

 

“What?” chorused four voices. Potter seemed to be gazing in awe at something that wasn’t there.

 

“It’s _huge_ ,” Potter exhaled. “There have got to be thousands of books in here.”

 

“In where, Harry?” Ginny asked, a faint tinge in her voice that indicated she was wondering whether he was in complete possession of his faculties right then.

 

He frowned at them. “In the library,” he said slowly.

 

“There’s nothing there,” Hermione told him.

 

Potter gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Like there were no voices in second year, right?” Draco didn’t quite get the reference, but Ron and Granger appeared chagrined. “It’s there alright.” And he walked straight through the wall to prove his point.

 

For a moment they all stared blankly, as though they had never seen magic before. The wall had been solid to the touch only a minute before and it still looked exactly the same to them, but Potter had apparently seen something different and walked straight through without hindrance. That was a complicated bit of magic, with similar elements to the barrier leading onto Platform 9 & 3/4s, the Room of Requirement and a hereditary Fidelius Charm. Impressive.

 

Potter’s head popped back through. “Are you guys coming or what? I’m not going through all these on my own.” A disembodied hand reached out of the wall and snagged Granger’s sleeve, pulling her in. They heard her delighted gasp loud and clear, which effectively confirmed that it was indeed the library, and took that as their cue to follow.

 

Once inside they could see the archway they had come through, but their attention was more focused on the room itself. It was actually a bit bigger than the Malfoy collection at first glance, but Draco figured that once his father’s private stash under the drawing room was factored in it was roughly the same. One key difference that could be seen was in the décor; the Manor library had graceful white marble pillars, landscape tapestries, a hand-carved cathedral ceiling and a crystal chandelier as well as huge windows to let natural light in during the day. Conversely, this library had a darker theme, with gleaming onyx walls, undecorated except for the sparse mounted torches that flickered with flames that must have lit automatically when Potter first entered. The light was enough to see by, but still managed to convey the impression of darkness somehow.

 

“Where do we even _begin_ to look?” Ron asked, his colouration a bit green at the thought of the monumental task ahead of them. “Are you sure destroying the locket is worth all this effort?”

 

“Yes,” Draco responded vehemently. “And if you could see what was inside that abomination you would agree with me.”

 

Ron offered no further objections.

 

“All right, to start off with we’ll all take two aisles each,” Granger instructed. “Check for titles with key words like Dark magic, Dark Arts, soul magic, soul splitting, protection spells, indestructible objects et cetera. Eliminate books that look to be Genealogies, Autobiographies, Geographical, fictional and Historical unless it is something like a History of the Dark Arts… You get the idea. Make neat stacks of the books you think are relevant on the tables, preferably in alphabetical order.”

 

Ron sighed heavily, Potter’s lips twitched with amusement and Ginny shook her head in exasperation, but they all obediently set to work.

 

Time passed and the stacks gradually built up. Draco and Granger finished their aisles first, so they started going through the tables of contents to narrow it down further. As Ron and Ginny joined them, Hermione passed her task over to them so she could begin flipping through the processed volumes. Out of the corner of his eye Draco caught glimpses of the grotesque illustrations that were making Granger grimace.

 

“Oh, that’s revolting,” Granger said, averting her gaze and turning the page over quickly. “Instructions on how to create Inferi and Dementors.” She shuddered but kept going.

 

“Hey Hermione,” Potter said, appearing out of his aisle. “There’s something weird going on. A few of the books look like they could be useful, but when I reached to pick them up my hand went straight through.”

 

“Illusions,” Granger said, sounding interested. “I wonder why.”

 

“Maybe someone moved the books but wanted to mark the places so they could be put back right,” Ginny suggested.

 

“Or the person who moved them didn’t want anyone to notice that they were missing,” Draco said, providing the Slytherin perspective that was otherwise missing from this little group.

 

“Do you think I should check if they’re in that cabinet over there?” Potter asked, pointing off into a dark corner.

 

There was a long pause.

 

“Harry…” Hermione started.

 

“What cabinet?” Ginny asked.

 

Potter looked from face to face, as though expecting someone to say they were joking. “Seriously?” He rolled his eyes. “An invisible cabinet inside an invisible room. What next?” He went to investigate on his own and Draco observed him fiddle with empty air for a few moments.

 

“It’s locked,” Potter reported. “Go figure. The initials R.A.B were inscribed on the handle though, so I wonder… Kreacher?”

 

There was a _pop_ and the house elf appeared bearing a laden tray. “Do Master and his helpers wish for some refreshment as they continue Good Master Regulus’s work?”

 

Three mouths gaped in astonishment at the change in Kreacher’s behaviour. Draco quietly explained about Regulus’s dying wish as Potter thanked Kreacher for the food and drink.

 

“Good Master Regulus always liked Kreacher to bring him refreshments when he was working in the library,” Kreacher explained.  


Potter had a gleam in his eyes, like he was on the verge of an important discovery. “Did Regulus spend a lot of time in here?”

 

Kreacher nodded emphatically, large ears flapped with the movement. “Oh yes, Master Harry Potter sir. Many, many hours, always late into the night. It was almost all he did in the last few weeks before he went back to the cave with Kreacher and the nasty creatures in the water killed him.” Kreacher sniffed loudly.

 

“Did Regulus have a middle name?”

 

Kreacher looked puzzled by the question, but it was not a house elf’s place to ask for a reason, so he simply answered, “Yes, Master Harry Potter. His full name was Master Regulus Arcturus Black.”

 

“R.A.B,” Potter smiled. “Is that his cabinet?”

 

Kreacher’s eyes flickered to the location involuntarily. “Private,” he croaked. “Master Regulus put charms on it so only he could see.”

 

“But I can see it,” Potter pointed out.

 

“When he died the charm must have passed to the owner of the house rather than breaking altogether,” Draco theorised.

 

“Do you have the key?” Potter asked the house elf. Kreacher’s old prejudices and suspicions looked to be on the verge of coming back, so Draco added:

 

“Whatever is in there could help us destroy the locket.”

 

Kreacher relented then, popping away for a moment and returning with a small polished key. Potter thanked him and moved back to the corner.

 

Ron had already started in on the snacks that Kreacher had brought, so Draco nabbed a pumpkin pasty and continued his task of deciphering the old English of a book to determine if it contained anything relevant. There was an entry about the Evisceration curse that had hurt Mrs Weasley; Draco marked it for future reference.

 

“It seems a shame,” Ginny said. He looked over at her. “To destroy something so beautiful.” She was staring at the locket.

 

“Someone already tarnished its beauty when they converted it into whatever unnatural thing it is now,” Draco replied.

 

There was a faint _click_ from the corner and a deep mahogany cabinet materialised, for all appearances, out of thin air. A number of books were stacked neatly inside.

 

“Are you sure it’s evil?” Ginny continued. Her voice sounded a little strange.

 

“Fairly sure,” Draco answered, wondering what was going on with her. It wasn’t as though she was a Slytherin who would have valid reason to regret the destruction of Salazar’s heirloom.

 

“But we’re just taking your word on that,” Ginny said. “You could be lying. Why should we trust you?”

 

Draco frowned. “Um, maybe because I saved Potter’s life? And helped to save your mother’s life, too, only yesterday?”

 

Ginny didn’t respond.

 

“Yes, this is one of the books that was missing,” Potter called out, reading the titles on the spines. “ _Secrets of the Darkest Art._ And _Magick Moste Evile… Striving for Immortality_ is here, too. An autobiography of some bloke called Herpo the Foul…”

 

“I don’t think we should destroy it,” Ginny said. “It looks valuable. We could sell it.”

 

“… _Magicks of the Soul,_ ” Potter went on.   


“Or I could wear it myself,” Ginny said.

 

“ _Dark Objects: How to create them and what their vulnerabilities are._ ”

 

Ginny’s hand shot out and snatched up the locket. She slipped the chain over her head and grinned a very un-Ginny-like grin.

 

“Ginny, have you finished that stack yet?” Granger asked absently.

 

“YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD!”

 

For a split second Draco thought that Walburga’s portrait was screaming again, but then he saw the twisted fury on Ginny’s face and the wand she held that was pointed directly between Granger’s eyes.

“I’m a little busy for games right now, Ginny,” Granger responded with only a brief glance up. But Draco didn’t think that this was a practical joke. Hatred burned in those blue eyes.

 

Ginny snarled. “ _Avada-”_

ooOOoo


	24. Fragments

 

Draco had never seen anyone move as fast as Potter did in that moment.

 

Even as Granger began her startled flinch away, Ron his horrified exclamation and Draco, to his later shame, his instinctual dive under the table for protection, Potter had spun around with his wand in hand and rapidly shot off two spells.

 

The first hit Ginny in the throat, silencing her before she could finish the curse, and a split second later her wand was torn from her grip. From between the table legs Draco watched as she screeched soundlessly, her face contorted with murderous rage, and ran full pelt towards Potter.

 

When it was his own life in danger, Potter’s willingness to hex her faltered. She had nearly reached him with everything in her eyes screaming her intention to rip him to pieces before he cast “Impedimenta!” to slow her down. She fought through it, practically frothing at the mouth. “Locomotor Mortis” locked her legs together, but she took a determined jump forward. Potter conjured ropes that caught her around the wrists and wrenched them behind her back, tying them up tightly. She almost lost her balance, but righted herself and took the last jump that brought her face to face with Potter. She bared her teeth and gnashed them together, her head jerking toward Potter’s neck as though she intended to rip out his jugular vein.

 

Potter ducked around behind her, wrapped one arm around her chest to immobilise her against him and used his free hand to pull the locket up over her head. He flung it as far away as he could.

 

“Ginny, snap out of it!”

 

She gasped and her eyes rolled back into her head. She slumped in his arms.

 

ooOOoo

 

Harry gently laid Ginny out on the floor, casting _Finite_ to reverse what he had done to her.

                                                

“Sorry,” he mumbled to her still form. He didn’t like that he had used spells against one of his friends, especially since Ginny had clearly not been herself, but he hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter. She had nearly killed Hermione. If he hadn’t managed to stop her in time…

 

Suddenly needing to reassure himself that he had in fact succeeded, Harry’s gaze darted up to check on the others. Hermione stood, pale and shell-shocked, but as Ron moved over and wrapped her in a protective embrace she broke down in tears and buried her face in his shoulder to try to hide them. Ron hugged her close, murmuring reassurances.

 

Malfoy extracted himself from under the desk, trying and failing to pull a dignified expression onto his face. Harry couldn’t blame him for ducking for cover, though. It was a natural response to imminent danger. It occurred to Harry that Malfoy had probably never come as close to death as he had on numerous occasions these so-called holidays. He seemed to remember warning Malfoy not to get too close to him for that very reason, but the Slytherin’s stubbornness was difficult to contend with.

 

“Are you okay?” Malfoy asked, coming over to check for himself. Apparently he didn’t trust Harry not to lie; probably having learned from experience. Harry really was okay this time, though, since he had escaped uninjured and without further loss of friends or family.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, allowing the scrutiny. “People try to kill me and my friends all the time, so,” he shrugged, “I guess I’m used to it.” He gestured vaguely toward Ron and Hermione, adding quietly, “I don’t think they are quite yet, though.”

 

“They’ll recover,” Malfoy said simply. To anyone else the words might have sounded cold and unsympathetic, but Harry could read it for the reassurance it was. “And the Weaslette?” he inquired, tilting his head in her direction.

 

Harry returned his attention to Ginny and saw that she was beginning to stir. His grip tightened warily on his wand, just in case, although he was fairly certain he had accurately recognised and removed the source of the problem.

 

Her eyes blinked open and slowly focused on him. She frowned a little. “Harry? What happened?”

 

“You, ah…” _Nearly murdered Hermione in a blind rage?_ Yeah, because that was the most sensitive way to tell her. Maybe it would be easier to just claim she had received a blow to the head that had knocked her out for a few minutes, but then she would ask how and he couldn’t come up with a quick, convenient lie that she would believe-

 

“I blacked out,” she said, sitting up suddenly. Harry couldn’t prevent the flinch away from her and her eyes swept the room, taking in the state of the others too. “Oh my god, I blacked out. What did I do? Did I hurt someone?”

 

“No-” Harry tried, but her words tumbled onwards.

 

“It was just like last time, like with the diary. It was _him,_ oh my god, what did he make me do?”

 

Harry froze as the implications hit him like a jet of ice cold water to the face.

 

“ _Him_?”

 

She nodded, beginning to tremble. “I could hear his voice in my head, whispering to me, telling me to take, to hurt, to k-kill.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Did I-?”

 

“No, everyone’s fine,” Malfoy told her. “You didn’t do anything.  Nearly, but Potter stopped you in time.”

 

Before Harry knew what was happening Ginny’s arms were around his neck, her body pressed up close as she hugged him. A wet patch was growing on his shoulder and Ginny was mumbling incoherent words that might have been ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’.

 

Harry’s heart had stopped. He couldn’t breathe. All logical thoughts had fled to be replaced with mind-numbing panic. Memories crowded in close to the fringes of his awareness, trying to force their way in, trying to make him remember the feel of flesh pressing up against him, hands holding him in place-

 

“Ginny, I think Granger could do with a hug from you, too,” Malfoy said.

 

She sniffed and pulled away, giving Harry a quick peck on the lips and a tremulous smile.

 

“Hey, Hermione… you okay…? I’m sorry…” Ginny’s soft voice filtered over to him from a distance; she had moved away.

 

Malfoy crouched down a few feet from him. “Breathe, Harry,” he advised gently.

 

Oxygen flooded him at a sharp intake of air, chasing out the spots that had started to dance in his vision. His bones felt like they had been removed by an incompetent teacher, his muscles felt like they had been transfigured into jelly. A full mental and physical breakdown threatened, but soothing words continued to float across to him from Malfoy and somehow he managed to regain control, shoving the memories and ragged emotions back into their vault.

 

He locked eyes with Malfoy for a moment to convey a silent thank you, to which Malfoy responded with a nod and faint smile.

 

Harry stood shakily to his feet.

 

“Ginny.”

 

She turned to look at him and his thoughts flared with a panicked _Please don’t hug me again!_ He pushed the distraction away.

 

“When you said it was ’him’ you meant that it was Tom Riddle, didn’t you? You meant that it was Voldemort.”

 

She winced at the use of the forbidden name, but nodded. “Yeah.” Her voice trembled the slightest bit. “I thought when you destroyed the Diary that it was finally over. I never wanted to go through that again.”

 

Harry could empathise with her there; Voldemort had possessed him rather violently last year and it had been one of the most awful experiences of his life. Although, if he were to try to rank those rather numerous experiences from bad to worst he wouldn’t know where to start. At least the possession had been reversible and over comparatively fast.

 

“So the locket is somehow the same as the diary.” He looked to Malfoy. “It contains a part of Voldemort’s soul.”

 

The Slytherin shivered with revulsion. “That was what I saw? No wonder the Dark Lord is insane, if he’s leaving bits of his soul all over the place.”

 

Hermione had regained her composure but Harry noticed that she didn’t move out of Ron’s embrace and he didn’t seem to mind. “According to _Acts of Moste Evile Nature_ ,” she said, “the act of committing murder splits a person’s soul, but it doesn’t usually cause the fractured parts to leave the body. The section of the text I was reading advised on ways to repair the soul or bind it back together. It made reference to a possible, darker alternative but didn’t go into any more detail.”

 

“A Dementor takes the soul out of a person, doesn’t it?” Ron contributed. “Maybe a Dementor took out parts of his soul and put them… into the diary and locket… somehow?”

 

Hermione shook her head. “It’s a good idea, Ron, but Dementors feed on the souls they take like food. The soul is destroyed irrevocably, not preserved.”

 

“So Voldemort must have used some sort of Dark Magic to do it,” Harry said. “We need to find out what.”

 

“And why,” Malfoy added. They all looked at him. “Well he might be insane, but the Dark Lord doesn’t do anything for no reason. If he is taking out parts of his soul and hiding them in objects there must be some sort of benefit or advantage that it provides him with.”

 

“Well, Dumbledore told me the reason for the Diary was so that the Chamber of Secrets could be opened again and used to purge the school of Muggleborns,” Ginny said, looking down at the floor to avoid anyone’s gaze.

 

Realisation dawned in Malfoy’s eyes. “So _that’s_ how my father did it.”

 

“It’s nothing to be proud of!” Ginny snapped.

 

Malfoy backed up a step, hands in the air. “I’m not proud, okay? I just didn’t know how he had managed to control what was going on inside the school from a distance.”

 

“Lucius wasn’t in control,” Harry told him, “not really. He just set the plan into motion… And Dumbledore reckons that Voldemort never gave him the go ahead for it, so he was probably pretty mad when he found out.”

 

“Especially if it was a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul that Harry destroyed and not just some clever enchantments on a book,” Ron pointed out.

 

“No wonder my father is still rotting in Azkaban,” Malfoy muttered.

 

“But if it was You-Know-Who’s plan for the Diary in the first place – to use it as a weapon – then he must have known that there would be a risk involved,” Hermione said.

 

Harry shrugged. “Maybe not. If the locket is anything to go by, the Diary must have been virtually indestructible. Besides, Voldemort is the arrogant type.”

 

“The Basilisk venom worked, though,” Ginny said.

 

“I don’t suppose you collected any to keep on hand in case you ever needed it again.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, leaving it unsaid that he would have had the foresight to do so if he had been in their position. Harry had no doubt that the venom was valuable on the Black Market and as an ingredient in some nefarious potions, but as a twelve-year-old the main thing that had stuck out about it was that it had very nearly killed him.

 

“No,” he replied shortly.

 

“Well if Basilisk venom works, maybe there are other things that do, too,” Ron reasoned.

 

“We still need to know what exactly it is that we are dealing with,” Harry pointed out. Before, this had been about getting rid of a potentially dangerous and possibly evil artefact. Now, though, they _knew_ it was dangerous and they _knew_ it was evil and this had suddenly become a part of the fight against Voldemort. It had reached a position of utmost importance in Harry’s list of priorities. The locket had to be destroyed.

 

Hermione nodded. “We have more information that should narrow down the search significantly. The owner of the soul fragment is still alive, the fragment is capable of exerting influence and communicating beyond the physical object in which it is contained, and it is susceptible to Basilisk venom.”

 

“Plus, it is fair to assume that Regulus Black was researching the same thing and that these books,” Malfoy gestured, “contain pertinent information.”

 

Hermione took charge again. “All right, everyone choose a book and search for anything that fulfils all the criteria. Note the possible candidates down along with their page number.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ron said, smiling at her and moving to be the first one to claim a book. She flashed a startled smile back at him and then settled down in a chair with the thickest volume. Harry wondered how much longer it would take the two of them to realise and admit that they liked each other. It had been obvious to him since the incident at the Yule Ball in fourth year, but they were a bit slow on the uptake. He supposed there were a lot of things going on at the moment to distract them; he just hoped that the job of being his best friends was not preventing them from being happy.

 

Harry picked up the autobiography and started searching for any notable accomplishments or misdeeds. It didn’t take him long to find out how he had earned the name ‘Herpo the Foul’ and it was nearly enough to make him vomit. What was worse was that the author was clearly very proud of everything he’d done, despite the outcry his actions had generated among his peers and community. One thing in particular stood out. After a brutal murder, Herpo had developed a procedure for encasing the torn portion of his soul in an object…  


In the end, all their results came out the same.

 

Horcruxes.

 

It explained a lot – such as how Voldemort had survived when the killing curse meant for Harry had rebounded on him – as well as proving how depraved Voldemort really was. Herpo the Foul had only ever created one Horcrux – through a brutal murder and a ritual so vile that Ginny actually threw up when she read about it – and it had stripped him of his humanity, made him dangerously unstable. But they had proof that Voldemort had created at least two. _Two!_

 

“And I doubt he would have stopped there,” Malfoy said.

 

Harry didn’t want to believe anyone – even Voldemort – could be capable of committing those acts just once for the sake of making themselves invulnerable, let alone twice, and Malfoy was suggesting that Voldemort would have done it _multiple_ times?

 

“He was a Slytherin,” Malfoy explained with a shrug. “We have back up plans for our back up plans. If, as you say, the Diary horcrux was intended as a weapon, then the Dark Lord would not rely solely on the locket to protect his immortality.”

 

“So three you think?” Harry asked, feeling the hope that had swelled within him at the initial discovery of Voldemort’s secret, his weakness, begin to fade back into despair. Finding the locket had been a fluke; if they had to scour all of Britain searching for another one that could look like anything…

 

“Maybe,” Malfoy said dubiously. “But I would wager that with each one he makes, the easier it is for him the next time. And the more he has, the safer he would feel.”

 

“But surely there has to be a limit!” Hermione exclaimed, as Harry morosely contemplated living his whole life in a futile search for hundreds of Horcruxes and dying before he ever saw the task completed.

 

Malfoy nodded slowly. “Obviously one cannot create an infinite number. The core soul would fall apart completely if it was ripped in half and separated too many times. The Dark Lord will have had to strike a balance between having enough Horcruxes to secure his immortality and few enough to ensure the continued strength and potency of his core.”

 

“So how many?” Harry asked, unable to stop the annoyance he felt from creeping into his tone.

 

Malfoy gave it a few moments of serious consideration. “What do you think, Granger? Seven?”

 

She chewed on her lip and then nodded. “It makes sense.”

 

“Why? What’s special about the number seven?”

 

“It’s the most powerful magical number,” Hermione and Malfoy answered simultaneously. Hermione went on, “That’s why it is at the root of almost every equation in Arithmancy.”

 

Harry felt sceptical – how could a mere number have any magical power? – and it must have shown on his face because Malfoy elaborated.

 

“Miss Weasley here is a living example,” he said. “You must have noticed that she is an exceptionally powerful witch.”

 

Harry conceded the point with a dip of his head, recalling how strong her spells had been during D.A practice last year.

 

“That is, in part, because she is not only the first female to be born into the Weasley clan in seven generations but also the seventh child in her family.”

 

“There are plenty of other examples,” Hermione added, “like how most wizarding children first show signs of magic at either seven months or seven years of age, but children born on the seventh day of the seventh month tend to manifest their powers earlier and have more dramatic displays of accidental magic. Also, large spells requiring huge amounts of energy to cast are most effective when seven witches and wizards work together. We have seven years of magical education…”

 

“And there are seven players on a Quidditch team!” Ron cut in excitedly.

 

“Yes, that is the general idea,” Hermione agreed.

 

“The point being that the Dark Lord is no doubt aware of the powerful magical properties of the number seven,” Malfoy said, bringing them back to the matter at hand, “and he would likely choose to separate his soul into seven pieces to make use of that fact. So that would make six Horcruxes and the core.”

 

“Six,” Harry repeated dully. It was better than hundreds, but still seemed an insurmountable task.

 

“At least we know now,” Hermione offered in an attempt at consolation.

 

“And you’ve already destroyed one of them,” Ginny said.

 

“We have the locket, too,” Ron said. “And we know how to destroy it… er, sort of.”

 

Hermione picked up one of the books that lay open on the desk and read an excerpt out of it. “ _Fair warning to the Dark Wizard who chooses to entrust a piece of his soul to the object that henceforth will be known as a Horcrux. The horcrux is powerful, and may not be easily harmed. The horcrux will retain a degree of sentience, perceiving any intent to harm in persons close by and take action to defend itself. The horcrux can draw strength from persons who become emotionally attached to or dependent upon it. The horcrux will be nigh indestructible in the face of many foes and magicks. But beware. Just as the horcrux is borne of blackest magic and foulest deeds, its ruin lies in magicks equally black and dark creatures equally foul. Guard against these through secrecy and concealment, or render the immortality gained through the creation of thy horcrux lost through thy incompetency.”_

 

“Black magic and dark creatures,” Harry summarised, frustrated by the lack of greater detail. “Such as the Basilisk.”

 

“Well, the Basilisk is classified as XXXXX by the Ministry of Magic,” Ron ventured, with that mildly uncomfortable expression on his face that spoke to the fact that he was reiterating information he had learned in a book and was ashamed to admit it. “Because it is a known wizard-killer and considered impossible to train or domesticate. There aren’t many other creatures in the category; just Acromantulas, Chimaeras, Dragons (though don’t tell Charlie I said that because he’s been campaigning to get their classification reduced to a quad-X for years), Lethifold, Manticores, Nundu, Quintapeds and Werewolves.”

 

“Werewolves-?!” Hermione began indignantly.

 

“Of those,” Malfoy interrupted quickly, “Most primarily use teeth and claw, or their trademark equivalent, to kill their victims. I doubt they would be terribly effective on a horcrux. Basilisks have venom; so do Acromantulas. Manticores have a deadly stinger on their tails, and Nundu have toxic breath. Those may work, but they all have the same essential problem...”

 

“Trying to get close enough to any one of them with a horcrux would be committing suicide,” Ginny concluded.

 

Ron and Malfoy both nodded.

 

“Hagrid is on friendly terms with some Acromantulas,” Harry reminded them. Ron blanched, probably at the memory of meeting Aragog and his family in the Forbidden Forest. Ron wouldn’t willingly go back there, Harry knew, and he personally wasn’t too keen on the idea either. “Okay, well, what about the magic angle then? What are we talking here?”

 

Hermione pulled out the copy of _Magick Moste Evile_ and skimmed through the table of contents, looking for destructive magicks. “Fiendfyre,” she read out loud. “But it’s awfully risky to conjure. Wizards who lacked the necessary control have been known to incinerate themselves with their own curse, and if allowed to run rampant the fire destroys everything in its path.”

 

Ron gulped. “Let’s leave that as a last resort, shall we?”

 

“The Killing Curse, of course,” she continued, reading on, “But unless the container for the soul fragment was actually a living thing I don’t think the killing curse would have any effect. Hm… There’s something here called ‘Corrosion’-”

 

Malfoy winced. “That potion is one of the deadliest ever invented – and it’s usually the brewer that ends up dead. The moment that all the ingredients are combined the potion burns through anything, be it cauldron, flesh and bone, wood, rock, metal, or earth… anything. It isn’t worth the risk.”

 

Harry sighed. Nothing was ever easy.

 

“Well, the only other thing I can find in here that may work on a horcrux is the Eraeso Ritual.” Hermione flicked through the book to find a more detailed description. “Ah, here it is. _The Eraeso Ritual irrevocably removes from existence every particle and atom within the containment field. Once completed, a single loud crack of displaced air will be heard, and henceforth no evidence will remain to show that the ritual ever took place. An excellent way of dispatching otherwise incriminating cadavers –_ Oh, honestly! This is designed to help people get away with murder! The things criminals come up with to escape justice…”

 

“That’s not what we have in mind, though, Hermione,” Harry reminded her. “This ritual sounds like it could be what we need. How does it work?”

 

She read onward silently.  Harry watched emotions pass across her face; hope first, then determination, fading into uncertainty, nervousness… and then disappointment.

 

“It’s dreadfully complicated,” she reported, and Harry realised she was disappointed with herself. “I thought I could follow it at first, but there are so many runes and measurements and calculations… Latin chants that have to be pronounced precisely and at exactly the right moment… If you make even the tiniest mistake you could end up erasing yourself from existence, and an even bigger mistake could wipe out an entire continent. Apparently a wizard known as Milton the Mad once threatened the Ministry of Magic with a deliberately botched Eraeso Ritual in protest to one of their policy changes, which is why it was banned from all Ministry-approved literature and wound up in this book.”

 

“So… not a good idea for us to try it out, then?” Ron guessed.

 

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think I could pull it off even if I had studied University-level Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. The rudimentary knowledge I have at the moment definitely wouldn’t cut it.”

 

“So we’re back at square one.” Harry knew it was irrational to be angry with her, so while last year he might have had an uncalled for outburst, he curbed the impulse. “We’re stuck with Basilisk venom, which we don’t have.”

 

“Harry, you’re the only person in the school who speaks Parseltongue, right?” Ginny asked rhetorically. He was the only person as far as they knew. “So if no one else has been into the Chamber of Secrets since we left, the remains of Riddle’s basilisk are probably still there,” Ginny reasoned. “The question is whether the venom will still be potent three years on.”

 

“Without stasis spells…” Malfoy mused. “Actually, yes, I think it will be.”

 

“Then all we need is to collect some of the fangs and use them to stab each of the Horcruxes as we find them.”

 

Easier said than done, Harry was sure.

 

“They don’t allow students inside the castle or school grounds during the summer holidays,” Hermione said. “We’d have to wait.”  


Harry shot a glance toward the locket. It was lying half under a shelf, as though it had been discarded and forgotten about. But even when he hadn’t been looking directly at it, Harry had been continuously aware of its presence and known exactly where it was, like he could sense it somehow.

 

He remembered Malfoy’s horrified reaction to Seeing the soul fragment that was hidden inside the locket. He didn’t think he would ever forget the murderous rage that had burned in Ginny’s eyes when she was wearing it around her neck. And he recalled the sensation he himself had felt when he picked up the locket for the first time, as though something inside it had recognised something inside him and tried to draw it out into the open. Harry had mentally fled, throwing up all of his half-formed Occlumency barriers, and the feeling had receded. But it had lingered, and it lingered still.

 

Harry wanted – no, needed – it gone. For all of their sakes. It wasn’t safe. They had to destroy it, and soon.

 

“We’re not waiting,” Harry said firmly. “The locket dies today.”

 

Hermione sighed, no doubt internally bemoaning his impatience and stubbornness, as well as his willingness to disregard the rules. “We would need special permission from Professor Dumbledore.”

 

“Well, we need to tell him about the Horcruxes anyway, don’t we?” Ron said. “He’s the unofficial leader in the fight against You-Know-Who, after all. I bet Dumbledore’ll be really impressed with us for working out why he’s all immortal and stuff!”

 

Dumbledore proud of something they had done… something Harry had helped with. That would be a welcome change. Dumbledore had never expressed out loud how disappointed he must have been with Harry when he had let Wormtail escape, and Cedric get killed, and Voldemort return, or ever admitted that he knew that the incident at the Department of Mysteries had been all Harry’s fault… but Harry knew. And Dumbledore had told him outright what he thought of Harry’s selfish decision to stay with the Weasleys, so he must have finally been fed up with all of the stupid mistakes that Harry seemed to make all the time. Harry couldn’t blame him. Dumbledore had expended all of this effort to protect, teach and train Harry, but he just kept stuffing everything up.

 

But with this, maybe, just maybe, Harry had done something right. Something _useful_.

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed quietly. Moving over to the shelves, he pulled off his jumper and used the wad of fabric to gingerly retrieve the locket from the ground. He bundled it up tightly, knowing that it was a feeble protection but hoping it would be enough until they had the chance to destroy the horcrux once and for all. “Kreacher?”

 

The elf came forward, having waited and watched patiently from the shadows. “Yes, Master?”

 

Harry asked for any Floo powder that was in the house and which fireplace was the one connected to the Floo Network. A few minutes later they were all standing on the hearth in the living room and Harry had a fist full of the ash-like substance in his hand. He remembered the discomfort of head-only transport, but it couldn’t be helped.

 

“Hogwarts,” he said, enunciating clearly and adding as an afterthought, “School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” He tossed in the powder and, when the flames flared green, knelt down to stick his head in the fireplace. Feeling dizzy and sick as other fireplaces whirled past his vision was a familiar sensation by now, but Harry wasn’t expecting the sudden jolt and painful yank in seemingly a dozen different directions at once.

 

Through the pain of his head being caught in a tug-of-war, Harry realised that Hogwarts castle had at least a hundred different fireplaces and that most of them were connected to the Floo Network (when Umbridge wasn’t in charge). “Dumbledore’s office,” he clarified hoarsely. Everything spun and he closed his eyes against the nausea. When he opened them again, he was gazing into a very familiar room.

 

Dumbledore’s phoenix twittered a greeting.

 

“Hi, Fawkes,” Harry replied fondly. He would never forget how Fawkes had come to his aid in the Chamber of Secrets. If the phoenix hadn’t blinded the Basilisk Harry never would have stood a chance, and if it hadn’t been for the phoenix’s healing tears Harry would have died anyway. It was a strange thing, to be able to say that he owed his life to a bird, but he was honoured that Fawkes had deemed him worthy of protection. And something deep inside him felt indescribable joy that here at least was one creature that would never die in his defence – at least not permanently.

 

Harry smiled a little, but reminded himself that he wasn’t here to reminisce or socialise with Fawkes. “Professor Dumbledore? Are you here, sir?”

 

Beyond his field of vision, he heard the sound of a goblet being set down on hard wood and a few moments later the hem of a bright orange robe came into view. He blinked, and looked upwards. “Orange?” he couldn’t help but ask.

 

Dumbledore chuckled. “I was feeling bolder than usual today, Harry… Professor McGonagall is absent from the castle, visiting with her brother, and so I knew she would not be able to critique my choice of robes. I did not count on your unexpected visit, however.”

 

Harry coughed to disguise the smirk he felt rising to the surface. “They’re very nice, sir.”

 

Blue eyes twinkled at him, no doubt seeing through the polite lie. “Thank you, my boy. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Harry’s knees were beginning to hurt already, so he appreciated cutting to the chase. “There’s something important I need to discuss with you, sir. About Voldemort.”

 

Dumbledore’s brow creased. “Another vision?”

 

“No, sir.” Harry hated to be reminded of his connection with Voldemort. “I haven’t had one since… well, they seem to have stopped.”

 

“I thought they would,” Dumbledore said, almost triumphantly as though he was glad to have been proven right. When was he ever wrong though, Harry wondered. “So there was something else, then?”

 

“Yes, sir. This is a little uncomfortable though and it might take a while to explain everything, so may I come through properly?”

 

“Certainly, Harry. My office is always open to you.”

 

“Can the others come too?” Harry asked. After the events of that morning, he was sure that they would all be very mad at him if he tried to leave without them again.

 

“Meaning Mr Weasley and Miss Granger?”

 

“And Ginny and Malfoy,” Harry added.

 

The twinkle made an appearance again. “Of course.”

 

Harry nodded and pulled his head back through to Grimmauld Place. A few minutes later the five of them were crowded into Dumbledore’s office, brushing soot off their clothing – except for Malfoy, whose robes had somehow come through the travel unscathed. Harry suspected a spell was behind it, borne of the Malfoy family’s desire to be presentable at all times.

 

Dumbledore greeted them all in turn, lingering over Ron and Ginny. “How is your mother?” he asked them sombrely. “I heard what happened.”

 

Harry felt a squirm of discomfort and stared down at his shoes, but Dumbledore never attempted an ‘I told you so’. He didn’t have to.

 

“She’s okay,” Ron answered. “Dad’s staying with her at St Mungos until the Healers say she can come home.”

 

“I am relieved to hear she will recover fully. Her loss would have been a terrible blow for your family.”

 

“Yeah,” Ron said, a shadow of grief passing through his eyes, twisting the knife of guilt tighter in Harry’s gut. But they weren’t here about the attack on the Burrow.

 

“Professor, we found something that we thought you would want to know about,” Harry said.

 

“Oh?”

 

Harry pulled the wad of fabric from his pocket and set it down on a nearby table, unwrapping it gingerly.

 

There was a flash of something in Dumbledore’s eyes as they took in the locket, but it passed too quickly for Harry to identify.

 

“Explain,” Dumbledore said softly.

 

Harry did, starting with the incident with Mundungus Fletcher, since he thought that Dumbledore should be aware of the thieving habits of one of his Order members. Dumbledore never said anything, though. Malfoy jumped in with a detailed description of what he had seen and felt when he used his Sight to look into the locket, then allowed Harry to take over again with the telling of how Kreacher had reacted.

 

“He mentioned a cave?” Dumbledore interrupted for a moment.

 

Harry frowned, thinking it an odd question, but answered it anyway. “Yeah. He said something about going back to a cave with Regulus, where the ‘nasty creatures in the water’ killed him.”

 

Dumbledore nodded, as though filing the information away for later use. “Go on.”

 

Harry proceeded to explain how all the spells they had tried were ineffective and how they had abandoned the hands-on approach to try doing some research instead. He felt uncomfortable describing what had happened with Ginny, especially since she was listening, so he gave an abridged version, noticing how Ron took Hermione’s hand and squeezed it gently in reassurance.

 

“That’s how we found out that the locket was Voldemort’s,” Harry said. He told how they had found the cabinet, and the books inside. “Sirius’s brother had already done most of the hard work for us. We found the information we were looking for.” He looked directly into Dumbledore’s eyes. “The locket is a horcrux. Voldemort is immortal because he hid parts of his soul in Horcruxes.”

 

There was no surprise in Dumbledore’s eyes or expression. Suddenly, Harry knew what he was going to say before he said it.

 

There was a long pause, and Harry waited, hoping he was wrong, hoping the sick feeling of disappointment in his stomach was misplaced. Then:

 

“I know.”

 

ooOOoo


	25. Secrets

 

“What?” Ron blurted.

 

“You _know_?” Hermione exclaimed.

 

“How can you _know?_ ” Ginny asked.

 

Harry didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

 

He backed away, though, feeling more betrayed than he had in all the time last year that Dumbledore had spent ignoring him. The honesty that Dumbledore had promised the last time Harry stood in this office had been a lie.

 

“You mean to say that we have been _slaving_ away over this all day, thinking that we were doing something worthwhile, something that would help the cause, and you knew all along that the Dark Lord had created Horcruxes?” Malfoy demanded. Apparently he had reached hot fury faster than the rest of them.

 

“I did not know for a fact,” Dumbledore cajoled. “Until you brought me this evidence, all I had was a strong suspicion-”

 

“Don’t try to feed us that hog shit,” Malfoy snapped, in both speech and control; Harry had never heard the aristocratic Slytherin use such language before.  “You knew bloody well, you just didn’t feel like sharing this crucial information with anyone else – not even your Boy Hero, despite the fact that you dumped the whole weight of this war on his shoulders.”

 

“I assure you, Harry, I had every intention of telling you.”

 

Harry just looked at him. It felt like when Aunt Petunia had been speaking to a social worker about him, patting his head, wearing a large false smile, saying how much she and her husband loved ‘little Harry’.

 

He didn’t attempt to put words to the hurt accusation in the forefront of his mind. Dumbledore knew what he had promised. But the promises that adults made didn’t mean anything, unless it was the promise to make Harry wish he had never been born. Not that Harry had ever needed Uncle Vernon’s punishments to feel that way.

 

“But you were coping with a very difficult loss at the time, Harry,” Dumbledore continued, giving him a look heavy with sympathy, “And I didn’t want to add any more to your burden just then.”

 

“Oh, and you didn’t think it would be too much of a burden for Potter to think he was somehow supposed to pull a miracle victory out of his hat against an enemy that he thought to be virtually invincible?” Malfoy asked sarcastically. “You were content to just let him be plagued with fear and doubt about his seemingly impossible role in this struggle?”

 

“This knowledge is not something I could deliver in one short conversation. I planned to have private lessons with you this year, Harry, where we could sit down together and go through the memories I have collected from various people to piece together this puzzle…”

 

“But you had already done that yourself, hadn’t you Headmaster?” Malfoy stated rhetorically. “So what was the point? No offence intended to Potter, but you are considerably smarter than him.” Harry didn’t take offence; it was true. “If he is satisfied with having Granger pick out pertinent bits of information from textbooks or situations and explaining them to him, why would you think you needed to waste time making him work it all out himself?”

 

“It is important for you to have a complete understanding of your enemy, Harry. The memories I will show you give us crucial insights into Voldemort’s character-”

 

“Just tell him what you discovered, for Salazar’s sake!” Malfoy cried in exasperation. “That is, of course, if you have anything useful to add. And if it is that the Dark Lord will likely have made six Horcruxes, don’t bother because we have already worked that much out ourselves.”

 

There was that flicker of surprise that Harry had expected to see earlier.

 

“So you haven’t made that clever deduction yet,” Malfoy said belittlingly. “So much for the all-knowing Dumbledore then, huh?”

 

Fawkes squawked indignantly, feathers puffing out in warning. Dumbledore’s voice hardened. “Need I remind you, Mr Malfoy, that I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts and you are currently standing my office without your father’s presence on the school board to excuse your behaviour? Or that your mother has made me responsible for your welfare?”

 

Malfoy’s grey eyes were still giving off sparks, but he straightened and said stiffly, “My apologies, Headmaster Dumbledore. I spoke rashly, but with Potter’s best intentions at heart and the Wizarding World’s by extension. The sooner we can bring this war to an end the better off everyone will be.”

 

The twinkle was absent, but Dumbledore smiled. It was as discordant an expression as Harry had ever seen on the Headmaster’s face. “I understand, Mr Malfoy, because I share the sentiment. Very well, I will share what I know, in a manner that should be succinct enough to please you, Mr Malfoy, though the story will be significantly lacking.”

 

Harry heard Malfoy mumble something under his breath that might have been “we are not here to listen to bedtime stories”, but either Dumbledore hadn’t noticed or he was choosing to ignore it.

 

“The diary was Voldemort’s first horcrux,” the Professor began, “created during his school years and apparently intended as a weapon to someday continue what he had started with the Chamber of Secrets. The diary was destroyed by you, Harry, with a Basilisk fang in your second year.”

 

They all nodded, and Malfoy shifted impatiently, but refrained from saying anything.

 

“Voldemort made boastful claims that he has gone further than anyone in his efforts to achieve immortality, which suggests he must have created more than one horcrux, since others in history have been known to create one, but never a greater number than that.”

 

The first such individual being Herpo the Foul, Harry knew.

 

“You have said you believe that Voldemort will have created six? I assume you reached this conclusion through the logic that seven is the most powerful magical number.”

 

Malfoy nodded.

 

“Well then, it becomes a matter of determining what the other objects are and where they have been hidden. You have found Slytherin’s locket, which I knew Voldemort possessed and suspected he would have used as a Horcrux but as yet had not been able to locate. From what Kreacher said, I rather think that Regulus Black retrieved the locket from a cave that had particular significance in Tom Riddle’s childhood. I have been searching for the location, but it would seem I no longer have to.”

 

It was strange to think of Voldemort as having had a childhood; Harry wondered for a brief moment what it had been like, and whether it had been the circumstances he had grown up with that had driven Voldemort to such acts of evil. Reflecting on life with the Dursleys, though, and everything that he had been through over the years – hell, even over the past few months – Harry decided that nothing was a good enough excuse for what Voldemort had done, and was still doing. Voldemort was evil and Harry was going to see him dead.

 

“Once the locket has been destroyed, which will be a simple matter to take care of-” he gestured faintly toward the Sword of Gryffindor that was displayed behind his desk (which made Hermione frown in thought and then exhale “ _Goblin-made_ ” a few moments later) “-that will be three Horcruxes dealt with, since at the beginning of the summer I came across and dispatched a ring horcrux that Voldemort had ensconced in his grandfather Marvolo’s cottage.”

 

Marvolo, as in Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry could tell there was probably a long, detailed history and explanation there that Dumbledore would be all too happy to give, but Malfoy was right that the Wizarding world couldn’t afford for them to wait.

 

“So that’s three down, three to go,” Harry summarised, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore’s revelation that he had known about the Horcruxes. As he had found on numerous occasions, his emotions didn’t matter much and tended to just get in the way, so they had been supressed in favour of the importance of their discussion. “We find and destroy the three, and Voldemort’s mortal again.”

 

“And I assume you have some clues about those as well,” Malfoy said.

 

Dumbledore nodded, absently stroking his long beard. “Yes, I think so. Throughout his life, Voldemort has displayed a propensity for collecting trophies. In his adulthood, these trophies tended to be objects with a powerful magical history, and with certain grandeur in and of themselves.”

 

“Like the locket,” Malfoy commented. “Slytherin’s lost heirloom.”

 

“Just so,” Dumbledore agreed. “I also know that he procured – by which I mean stole, and committed a murder which he framed on an innocent in order to get away with it – a relic of Helga Hufflepuff’s. It was a jewel encrusted cup, which likely ended up as a horcrux as well. I do not know where it may be, however.”

 

“And there are two others,” Harry said. “What about them?”

 

“This is all conjecture, you understand, Harry – unconfirmed guesses.” Harry waited for him to continue. “Well, it is my belief that Voldemort would have set out to track down objects that belonged to the other two Founders of Hogwarts, so that he would have a complete set. I do not know if he ever found a relic of Rowena Ravenclaw, but I am confident that Gryffindor’s heirloom remains safe.” He gestured to the sword again.

 

“So if he doesn’t have an object of Gryffindor’s, what did he use instead?”

 

“I do not know, Harry.”

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What do you _think_ he used instead, then?”

 

The level gaze that Dumbledore aimed at the blonde was almost the equivalent of an annoyed glare, but the Professor was unlikely to ever express a negative emotion as clearly as that. “For a while now, I have been curious about behaviour of the snake, Nagini. As unwise as it is to entrust a piece of one’s soul to a creature that can think and move on its own, Voldemort seems to care for the snake as much as anything, and I imagine he would perceive such a connection to his serpent familiar as underpinning and strengthening his connection to his Slytherin heritage.”

 

Harry quailed a bit at the thought of having to, sometime, take on that snake. He knew it was probably a bit ridiculous, considering he had taken on a Basilisk which made Nagini seem to be the size of a worm, but he had witnessed Voldemort’s snake attack someone from the snake’s perspective and it had been frighteningly violent. He didn’t want to die that way. He was glad that Mr Weasley _hadn’t_ died that way, but living with the memory couldn’t be very pleasant for him either.

 

“So the cup, something of Ravenclaw’s, and the snake,” Harry said. “Am I missing anything else here?”

 

There was a pause in which Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on Harry’s scar, but it was fleeting and Harry didn’t notice. “No, my boy, I believe that is everything.”

 

“And the sword destroys Horcruxes, so we don’t have to go back down into the Chamber of Secrets after all.”

 

“Back-ups, Potter,” Malfoy reminded him, once again sounding remarkably like Hermione when she was trying to drill an important concept into their brains. “You Gryffindors would get into far less trouble if you made a habit of incorporating a bit of Slytherin thinking into your plans. What if something were to happen to the sword and you somehow lost easy access to the Chamber? You would have to resort to Fiendfyre, or Corrosion, or the Eraeso ritual, and I think we already determined that those were unsavoury options.” He turned grey eyes on Dumbledore. “Similarly, Headmaster, what if something unfortunate had befallen you before you shared the information about the Horcruxes with anyone and we had not discovered it for ourselves?”

 

Dumbledore flexed his right hand unconsciously. “Your point is well made, Mr Malfoy.”

 

“So you will allow us to go and retrieve some Basilisk fangs from the Chamber?”

 

Dumbledore’s tone became apologetic. “Strictly speaking, students are not supposed to be in the castle during the summer break. I have permitted your entrance into my office, but I am afraid I cannot-”

 

“What if there is a horcrux down there?” Ginny interrupted. “I mean, think about it. You-Know-Who is Slytherin’s only true heir and he probably thought that he was the only one who had discovered where the entrance to the Chamber was. Parseltongue is a rare ability these days, so he would have assumed that only he, or someone he was p-possessing, would be able to get in.”

 

Harry nodded; it made a lot of sense. “Plus, Riddle seemed to think that the Basilisk would only answer to him, so that would be like an already built-in guard dog that could kill people just by looking at them.” Absently, Harry thought that there might be a possible joke in there somewhere about how ‘if looks could kill’… but considering that Myrtle had been murdered by the Basilisk, and quite a few other Hogwarts inhabitants nearly had as well – Hermione and Harry included – he didn’t think it would be in good taste, or well received.

 

“The only flaw in that would be that the Dark Lord would be placing his horcrux in close proximity to one of the few things that could destroy it,” Malfoy pointed out. “But I think it is worth a look anyway.”

 

“Hm,” Dumbledore mused, steepling his fingers. “Tom Riddle did, I believe, think of Hogwarts as his home. Certainly, he felt nothing but disdain and loathing for the Orphanage where he stayed when school was not in session. And Hogwarts would fulfil both his criteria of being a safe place, as well as one of personal significance to him.”

 

“So I say we check it out,” Harry concluded. “After we get rid of that.” He flicked a hand in the direction of the locket.

 

Dumbledore retrieved the sword from its case and held it out. “Who would like to do the honours?”

 

Harry looked around at his friends – and it was a strange sort of feeling, to be able to count Draco Malfoy among them. Their faces held a mixture of trepidation and the grim desire to see the horcrux destroyed.

 

“Ginny,” Harry decided. She appeared to be the most afraid to confront the thing that had possessed her and directed her actions to the point of nearly killing Hermione. Harry could imagine, too, that her thoughts lingered on the Diary – the way she had confided in it, poured out all of her feelings to it, trusted it, and in doing so inadvertently given Voldemort the power he needed to control her. She was afraid of the horcrux and afraid of the weakness inside of her. But she also looked to be, in this moment, the most determined of them to see the matter through. Maybe doing this would give her some closure.

 

She turned surprised and somewhat panicked eyes on him, on the verge of refusing the offer.

 

“You can do it,” Harry told her, with steadfast confidence. She was strong; stronger than him. She would succeed in this, he knew, and hopefully beat back the demons that had haunted her since her first year at Hogwarts at the same time.

 

She took a deep breath, and accepted the sword.

 

“You will have to open it I think, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly.

 

“How?” Ron asked. “We tried for ages last year and none of us could… it is jammed shut.”

 

But Harry knew how; somehow had all along. He focused his gaze on the serpentine ‘S’. “ _Open,”_ he hissed.

 

The golden doors opened with a faint _click_ , there was a brief glimpse of a handsome eye inside, and then an explosion of sight and sound. Harry didn’t catch most of it, but heard a few snippets here and there.

 

“…silly little girl…” “…‘ _no one’s ever understood me like you, Tom_ ’…” “…weak…” “…you are mine, Ginerva Weasley…”

 

Ginny was pale and shaking, staring wide-eyed at the apparitions forming and coalescing in front of her, the sword trembling in her grip.

 

“You can do it,” Harry repeated loudly and abruptly the horcrux turned on him. Pain exploded in his skull. He dropped to a knee, palm pressed against the scar that seared worse than a branding iron. Dark images swarmed around him, formless at first but clawing for a purchase inside his mind, scraping, dragging out memories and thoughts and feelings. A large figure stepped out of the shadows, leering at him, piggy eyes darkening with a sick hunger-

 

A dim roar of determination, the whistle of metal passing through air, a crash and echoing shriek of pain, and then the cessation of sound.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Harry…” Draco tried gently.

 

Potter curled tighter into his protective ball, huddling half-under a desk with his shoulder pressed up against the wooden leg. The table was vibrating with the force of his shudders.

 

Draco knew what he had seen. The vision was visible to all of them, and, distorted though it had been by Potter’s intense fear, Draco recognised what – or more accurately, who – it was. Even hundreds of miles away, Dudley Dursley was still hurting his cousin. What Draco had done to him in retaliation for his crimes was too good for the bastard. Draco should have had him castrated, hung, drawn and quartered.

 

“Harry, it wasn’t real. You’re safe. It’s gone now. Ginny destroyed the horcrux, just like you said she would. Everything is alright.”

 

Green eyes peeked out uncertainly from between knobbly knees. Draco smiled encouragingly, but Potter’s gaze travelled past him to the others who were staring openly at him in both concern and surprise. They didn’t know why their hero would cower in fear when faced with what had to seem to them an insubstantial and somewhat puzzling threat.

 

“…thought Harry’s greatest fear was a Dementor…?” Ron murmured, to which Granger replied quietly, “…wasn’t even Harry’s uncle I don’t think, which might have made sense…”

 

“Harry?” Dumbledore asked, appearing more perplexed than anyone. “It was just a cleverly crafted illusion – a last ditch attempt by the fragment of Voldemort’s soul at self-preservation. Whatever it looked like to you, it was not real. There is no need to fear.”

 

Potter’s cheeks went crimson – although Draco could not tell whether it was out of shame or embarrassment. He started to unwind himself and got awkwardly to his feet, avoiding making eye contact with anyone. Draco allowed him a wide berth, but Dumbledore reached out and squeezed his shoulder in a way that was supposed to be reassuring.

 

Potter flinched violently away, his teeth clamping down hard on his lower lip to contain a cry. Draco stepped in front of him protectively, glaring at the Headmaster. Ignorance was no excuse in Draco’s book, not anymore.

 

“Harry.” Dumbledore sounded almost hurt by Potter’s reaction to him, and also somewhat suspicious that there was something he wasn’t being told. Since it was true, Draco supposed the suspicion was warranted. He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards Dumbledore at the moment, though, and he knew full well that Potter didn’t want the Headmaster to know anyway, so Draco was content to leave him wondering.

 

“He’s fine,” Draco said coolly. “I’m sure you have many demands on your time, Professor, so we will just be on our way to the Chamber of Secrets and then get out of your hair.”

 

“I will accompany you-” Dumbledore tried, but Draco cut across him.

 

“No, that won’t be necessary, sir. The password to get back up here once we have retrieved the Basilisk fangs?”

 

“Buttermilk Boils,” Dumbledore relented. “The latest in the line of Skiving Snackboxes from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, I believe.” He smiled faintly in the direction of Ron and Ginny.

 

“Thank you, sir.” Draco gestured for the others to exit ahead of him, making sure that Potter was safely ensconced between himself and Ron. Oddly enough, out of Potter’s friends, Ron had shown the greatest level of awareness and caution when it came to giving Potter the space he needed. Draco figured it was a combination of the fact that Ron had been Potter’s roommate for years and that it was a natural instinct for women to communicate affection through touch, so it was harder for Granger and Ginny to break out of the habit. They had the best intentions, but Potter freaked out every time anyone came too close – sometimes more obviously than others, though Draco could always read it in his eyes. It was as if, on some deep subconscious level, Potter couldn’t comprehend the idea that not all forms of touch were meant to degrade, humiliate or hurt him.

 

Draco shook his head sadly, wishing that a simple hug could sooth away the pain of his memories somehow, but with Potter in his current state any attempt would only do more harm than good.

 

He was startled out of his thoughts when he noticed that the procession was casually strolling into a bathroom.

 

“Hang on a minute!” he exclaimed. “We can’t go in there!”

 

Granger smirked at him. “Offends your sensibilities does it, Draco?”

 

“It’s a _girls’_ bathroom,” he stressed, with extra emphasis. Were they all blind or something? Did they seriously expect him to just walk into a girls’ bathroom?

 

“It’s Myrtle’s, actually,” Potter said quietly. “No one else goes in there. Besides, it’s not like anyone is around to see you.”

 

“Or we could just leave you behind,” Ron suggested.

 

Draco scowled at him and reluctantly passed through the door. He had heard about this bathroom, actually, from a loud-mouthed Pansy complaining about it in the Slytherin Common Room one evening; something about a ghost called ‘Moaning Myrtle’ who had made the bathroom inhospitable. He hoped the ghost wasn’t in a bad mood today, because he didn’t really want to be walking through flooded toilet water.

 

The last thing Draco was expecting, though, was for Moaning Myrtle to be… flirtatious. But the bespectacled ghost appeared from a cubicle when she heard them coming, and when she saw who it was she smiled coyly and fluttered her eyelashes. “Hullo Harry.”

 

“Hi Myrtle,” Potter replied easily, as though this wasn’t the first time they had had a conversation. “How have you been?”

 

“Lonely,” she sighed. “You haven’t visited me in _ages_.”

 

“It’s school holidays.”

 

“I know…” She pouted. “Holidays are no fun. There’s no one to haunt or scare when all the students have gone home.”

 

“What about the teachers?” Potter asked, with the barest hint of a mischievous smile.

 

“They get mad at me. Especially ol’ grumpy bum Professor Snape. He had the nerve to use a spell to get rid of me once, can you believe it?”

 

Yes, Draco really could – especially if the ghost had called Snape a ‘grumpy bum’ to his face. The Potions Master would _not_ have been pleased.

 

“Set Peeves on him next time,” Potter suggested and her face lit up with a wicked grin.

 

“I just might.”

 

“We’ve got to go down into the Chamber,” Potter told her. “Have you been keeping a close watch, making sure no one else tries to use it?”

 

She nodded, floating over to the sinks and peering at one of the taps. “No snakesies coming out, and no funny-language-speaking people going in. Quiet as a tomb.”

 

“That’s good, Myrtle. We’ll see you soon.”

 

“Be careful,” she said sweetly, then giggled to herself and swept back into her cubicle. “But remember,” she called, “I don’t mind making room for you in my toilet if something happens to you down there.”

 

“I remember,” Potter answered absently, his attention already focused on the tap that Myrtle had examined a few moments ago. His eyes went a little strange and he hissed something in Parseltongue; the same word that he had spoken to the locket, Draco thought. He watched in awe as the secret entrance opened up, but Potter seemed uninterested, as though the novelty had long since worn off. He turned to Ginny instead, a concerned look on his face. “You don’t have to come down with us if you don’t want to. I mean, if it brings back bad memories…”

 

Draco realised that she had seemed uncomfortable ever since the corridor outside – the same corridor, he dimly recalled, where Filch’s cat had been found Petrified and the messages in red paint had been written on the wall. At Potter’s words, however, her features smoothed into grim resolve and her chin jutted out stubbornly. “I can handle it.”

 

An emotion that Draco couldn’t identify passed through Potter’s eyes, but he simply nodded. “Okay, then.”

 

They jumped down into the giant chasm, one after the other, Potter leading the way. As he stood at the brink, staring down into pitch blackness, Draco thought briefly that what he was doing was completely mad. But if the two people who had nearly died in the Chamber were willing to brave it again, there was no way Draco could live down chickening out now. Besides, this was the chamber of legend, set in place and hidden for centuries by Salazar Slytherin himself. It was a sight few eyes had seen and Draco didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity.

 

So he took a steading breath and jumped.

 

He landed in a pile of small animal bones and general filth, narrowly missing Granger who had scrambled out of the way just in time. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the surroundings but didn’t comment, simply brushing off his robes and then following Potter as he continued onwards. They passed through another Parseltongue safeguard and wound up in a series of dank tunnels.

 

“Is this where you two got separated?” Granger asked Ron as they picked their way through a mound of rubble that partially blocked one of the passageways.

 

He nodded. “Never thought I’d be grateful that my wand was broken, but if it hadn’t been Harry and I would be the ones in St Mungos with our memories wiped clean right now and Ginny never would have been rescued.”

 

“…memories wiped clean…” Potter repeated, almost thoughtfully, as though the idea appealed to him. Draco couldn’t blame him it if did, considering the sorts of memories he had to live with every day. But he didn’t think Potter was the sort of person who would deliberately Obliviate himself, so he decided not to worry about it too much. No one else had heard the quiet words.

 

“You know, if Riddle had succeeded with what he was trying to do, there might have been two V-Voldemorts walking around,” Granger mused. “I wonder if they would fight each other for dominion, or work together to take over the world.”

 

“Thankfully we will never have to find out,” Draco said.

 

They finally reached the central Chamber and Draco would have been in awe of the spectacular size and grandeur of the temple of Slytherin… if his gaze hadn’t been caught by the _enormous_ skeleton taking up most of the floor space.

 

He gaped in open astonishment, momentarily shocked speechless.

 

“You alright there, Malfoy?” Potter asked, a tinge of humour in his tone.

 

“ _That_?” Draco gasped. “You fought _that_? You _killed_ that?”

 

Potter shrugged. “Tom Riddle set it on me and I defended myself. Fawkes and the Sorting Hat helped.”

 

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron breathed. “You told us it was big, but that thing is _huge_!”

 

“You should have seen it when it still had flesh and blood,” Ginny said, shuddering slightly.

 

“I think I’d pass on that,” Draco confessed. Confronted with something that big and that terrifying, he probably would have run screaming for his life. He wouldn’t have stood and fought, and he certainly wouldn’t have made it out of the encounter alive if he tried.

 

His respect for Potter increased another few notches. He might think that heroism had been forced on him, but there weren’t many people who would have had the courage or the will to go up against such a monster, and fewer still who would have done it to save the life of someone else.

 

“We should collect the fangs,” Potter reminded them, breaking the stunned stupor. “Carefully. Trust me, you do _not_ want to be stabbed by one of those things.”

 

He sounded so matter-of-fact about it, even though he was talking about a near-death experience that had only been averted at the last moment. Would coming close to death on so many occasions eventually desensitise a person to the whole concept of dying? Draco had to hope that he was never in a position to know the answer to that question personally, although the rate he was going…

 

They walked along the length of the skeleton, moving cautiously with wands ready for a quick retrieval even though the Basilisk was clearly dead and no other danger seemed likely to present itself. The jaws were big enough for an adult to stand in and the fangs were easily each a foot long. Draco swallowed nervously at the sight, sneaking a sidelong glance at the boy who had fought and defeated this monster at the age of _twelve_. If he could manage a feat like that, then maybe it wasn’t so farfetched that he might be the one capable of taking down the Dark Lord.

 

They set about wrenching and snapping the teeth off the main bulk of the skeleton, occasionally employing the use of magic when a fang proved exceptionally resilient. Granger coated each one in a simple Shield charm as it was removed so that they wouldn’t be able to nick themselves by accident and then conjured a large glass ball around the whole pile so it could be carried safely.

 

“Are we ready to go, then?” Ron asked.

 

Potter nodded slowly. “I don’t think there is a horcrux in here.”

 

“We haven’t even looked around yet,” Granger pointed out. “So how could you know?”

 

A flicker of a frown passed across Potter’s face but he didn’t press the matter, joining in with the search.

 

As they spread out, looking for hidden nooks and crannies in an already hidden chamber, Draco took to gliding his fingers over each object he saw and reaching out with his Sight. He didn’t feel anything that resembled the mangled soul fragment that he had seen inside the locket, though, and no one else seemed to be having better luck.

 

Finally, Potter climbed down from the statute of Salazar Slytherin, having clambered through the opening of the mouth and a few minutes later back out again. “I examined the nest and there wasn’t anything there except for old skin residue and a few bits of bone,” he reported.

 

“So no horcrux here, then,” Ginny concluded. “I was so sure there would be…”

 

“Maybe You-Know-Who isn’t quite as logical as we are,” Ron said.

 

“Do you think there is somewhere in the castle that Voldemort would consider a safer place for his horcrux? Or more significant?” Harry asked.

 

“Maybe the Slytherin dungeons?” Granger guessed out loud.

 

Draco shook his head. “It’s too pubic. Generations of students pass through there and after all these years there aren’t many secrets left undiscovered.”

 

“Where then?” Potter sounded tense, frustrated. Draco was reminded anew of the pressure Potter was under to somehow bring this war to an end and knew that Potter would feel the guilt of every life lost between now and the moment when it was all over (whether for him or for Voldemort).

 

“We’ll find it, wherever it is,” Draco promised him. “We’ll find all of the Horcruxes that are left, and destroy them just like the Diary, the ring and the locket. We are going to strip the Dark Lord of his immortality and we are going to stop him once and for all.”

 

Potter looked heartened by the miniature speech, and the others too. Draco forced himself to say the next words. “But it will take time.”

 

Potter stared at him for a long moment, before nodding in resignation.

 

ooOOoo


	26. The Lies We Tell

 

Severus Snape felt an odd pang of longing as he walked through the corridors of Hogwarts Castle. He had just been down to his lab to check on a few of the potions that required months to brew to perfection but minimal supervision and they were coming along nicely. He wished he could stay longer and spend the evening in amongst the scents and vapours, brewing potions in peace and quiet to his heart’s content, but the Dark Lord was expecting him soon.

 

It was strange to realise that he was actually looking forward to the start of the new school year, when he would have to worry more about imbecilic children blowing themselves up with botched potions and less about the demands of his Death Eater and Order duties – though they would by no means cease altogether just because his teaching job had resumed. But at least he would be able to spend more time in the dungeons that felt more like home than his house at Spinners End ever had.

 

He scowled at himself for allowing the moment of foolish sentimentalism and rounded the corner with more dramatic flourish than was strictly necessary. He thought that the corridors were empty, quite understandably since they always were at this time of the year. But he rounded the corner-

 

-and ploughed straight into someone coming the other way.

 

Severus successfully recovered his balance, but the idiot who hadn’t been looking where he was going landed flat on his back with a surprised grunt. A chorus of surprised and concerned exclamations followed and Severus realised the he had somehow managed to bump into a whole pack of teenagers who were on campus illegally. The students in question were, unsurprisingly, Potter’s little gang, and Potter was the one on the floor. He still had not stood to his feet, nor had he yet said anything rude to the ‘evil bat of the dungeons’ (yes, Severus knew what the students called him behind his back) who had knocked him over.

 

“Potter,” Severus drawled dangerously, pre-empting the brat.

 

Potter didn’t even do him the courtesy of meeting his stern gaze. When he finally said something, Severus was shocked.

 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“What?” Severus snapped.

 

The boy winced and unconsciously scooted backed an inch. As though he was frightened. Of Severus, acting the way he normally did. He wasn’t even angry, really, which is why he had permitted the volume and bite of his tone to increase.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated louder, trying to disguise the faint tremor in his voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten in your way like that.”

 

Potter was apologising. Potter was _apologising_?

 

“Get up, Potter!”

 

He scrambled to obey, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

 

“Look at me,” Severus ordered gruffly.

 

Lily’s green eyes rose hesitantly to meet his, but in that moment they were _not_ hers, because they contained none of the joy, the sparkle, the passion for life that had made Lily’s gaze so captivating. They weren’t even defiant, or angry, or annoyed, or mocking. In fact, the emotion in them was almost an eerie replica of what Severus had consistently seen in the mirror during his youth. But what were eyes like those – eyes that were fearful, hopeless, broken – doing on the face of the stuck up Boy Hero Harry Potter?

 

“What happened to you?” Snape demanded.

 

Potter looked puzzled. “I fell over, sir.”

 

Only years spend working with irksome children gave Severus the strength to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I am aware of that, Potter. I was directly involved, if you recall.”

 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“Stop apologising!” Words that Severus would never in a million years have expected to say to the son of James Potter. “And answer the question properly.”

 

There was that flash of fear again. “I – I don’t understand.”

 

“I am not a fool, Mr Potter. I can tell that something has transpired in the time that you have been away from Hogwarts, and I would like an explanation.” There was a pause, and he added irritably, “I don’t have all night.”

 

“A lot has happened.” Ah, there was the defiance that had been missing, but still, only the faintest trace of it. “It would take a long time to tell you everything, and I’m not sure why it is any of your business.” And a smidgen of anger there, too. Good. But it wasn’t enough. Something had changed and Severus needed to know what.

 

“I am making it my business,” Severus replied smoothly, choosing not to disclose the very personal reason why. The promise he had made to the memory of a certain beautiful red-headed witch was known only to him and Dumbledore, and Severus intended for it to remain that way. “I want to know what has put that look in your eyes, Potter, and do not try to pretend that it was crashing into me because, while the event was thoroughly undignified, it hardly counts as traumatic.”

 

Potter swallowed. “I’m fine.”

 

How many times had Severus himself said the same thing to a teacher, or to Madam Pomfrey, his eyes pleading for the lie to be believed, just as Potter’s were now?

 

“I don’t believe you, Mr Potter,” Snape purred, in the tone that worked best for striking fear into troublesome little first years. It had never been terribly effective on Potter, though, and still wasn’t even now, as though Potter didn’t consider anger that was calmly expressed to be a serious threat. Or, perhaps, as though he felt that someone who was able to restrain their anger as well as Severus would not suddenly lose control and lash out violently… as other people, such as Severus’s own father, were prone to do.

 

The suspicion in the back of his mind grew stronger.

 

Acting impulsively, Severus made a sudden, aggressive step forward, bringing a hand half way up.

 

Startled, Potter jerked backwards with a muffled cry and flung an arm across his face to defend from a blow.

 

Severus stared at him.

 

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” someone demanded angrily, pushing him in the shoulder to make him back off.

 

For a brief moment Severus flicked his attention to the one who had interfered and was shocked to see that it was Draco Malfoy. The young Slytherin had for a long time held much respect for his Head of House and had certainly never snapped at him in such a manner. Even more incongruous was the fact that, unless Severus was very much mistaken – and all logic would suggest that he was – this outburst of Malfoy’s had been in defence of _Potter._ A fierce protectiveness burned in those grey eyes.

 

“What _happened_?” Severus exhaled in bewilderment. The world had stopped making sense.

 

“You just attacked a student!” Hermione Granger said indignantly.

 

“On the contrary, Miss Granger. If I had intended Mr Potter harm, I would have used magic and I would have succeeded. I was merely conducting an experiment.”

 

“To determine what, exactly?” Ronald Weasley spoke up, a heated flush to his cheeks which clashed with his hair. “Whether you are an evil, scary bastard? Because I would have thought that was obvious to you by now.”

 

Unfortunately, house points could not be deducted during the summer break.

 

“In answer to your earlier question,” Ginerva Weasley said, “nothing has happened these holidays that has been anything different to usual.”

 

Severus skimmed the surface of her mind and discovered that she was telling what she believed to be the truth, but her words were intended as a deliberate concealment of the facts.

 

A brief expression passed across Draco’s face as she spoke, however, which told Severus that Draco knew that her words were an unknowing lie. Something significant _had_ happened, then. Potter’s friends knew most, but not all, of the story, and incredibly, Draco knew more than they did but he was just as unwilling to share the details.

 

“Potter,” Severus said quietly, looking directly at the boy. “Has someone been hurting you?”

 

Green eyes flashed up in panic and Severus locked their gazes together, not bothering to listen to the denial. He drew upon his magic and concentrated.

 

Jumbled images, sounds, sensations flashed through his mind.

 

_“There will be NO bloody magic anywhere in or near this house, do you understand me?”_

  
_A face, beet red and furious, veins bulging, spittle flying from his mouth as he yelled._

_“Bloody useless waste of space!”_

_Clenched fists shaking in the air, slamming into tables, into flesh._

_“You are a stupid, dirty, horrible freak!”_

_Booted feet, merciless in their onslaught._

_“Ungrateful, good-for-nothing swine!”_

_The sound of a belt being unbuckled and pulled free, the CRACK of leather through air._

_“I am going to teach you a lesson once and for all!”_

_Splintering pain._

_“This is what you get for daring to defy me!”_

_Unbearable agony._

_…_

_Hot breath._

_Cruel smile._

_Sickening leer._

_“You know what I want.”_

_Hands-_

A blast of magic threw Severus back against the wall, breaking the eye contact crucial for Legilimency and thus his connection with Potter’s mind.

 

Draco, trembling with fury, was the one who held the wand on him. He was the one who had cast the spell.

 

“Leave. Him. _Alone_.”

 

“It was necessary,” Severus gasped, still reeling from the deluge of painful memories, needing a moment to separate his identity from the whirlwind of foreign emotions that he had taken into himself.

 

“It was cruel!” Draco snapped, refusing to lower his wand, standing deliberately between Severus and Potter.

 

Potter had fallen back against the opposite wall of the hallway and was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths, a shaking hand held belatedly over his eyes to prevent any further intrusion. He had gone dramatically pale.

 

“And illegal,” Draco continued with a snarl. “You know full well that it is against the law for Legilimency to be performed on a minor without their prior knowledge or permission, or their guardians’ consent. I could have you sacked.”

 

It was not uncommon for the Malfoy scion to make arrogant threats against faculty members, but Severus had never before been on the receiving end of the blonde’s vitriol. It was upsetting, disconcertingly so. Severus had not realised how much he valued the respect of his snakes until now.

 

“Unless it is for the wellbeing or safety of the minor in question,” he countered. “I had just cause. I suspected that Potter had been mistreated and I was correct. Potter has been abused.”

 

Potter flinched at the declaration and shrank back further, but no one attempted to deny it. It was very difficult to lie to a skilled Legilimens. Even with just the brief flashes of memory from Potter, Severus had all the proof he needed.

 

His voice softened with sympathy. “I am sorry, Potter.”

 

“For invading his privacy or for being an insensitive son of a bitch?” Miss Weasley asked sarcastically.

 

Severus wished that there were not so many other students here. Conversations like these were never easy, but it was infinitely more difficult with an audience.

 

“For what you have been through, P… Harry,” he corrected quietly.

 

Potter’s hands dropped sharply down to his sides, clenched into fists; anger flashed through his eyes. “Don’t! Don’t call me that! I don’t want your pity!”

 

Severus’s heart was rough, hardened from years of lack of use, but it ached now. Ached for Lily’s son, who had known a pain that Severus would not have wished on anyone – not even James Potter and Sirius Black.

 

“It is not pity,” Severus assured him. “I… I know how you must be feeling. It is a terrible thing for a child to be hurt by those who they should be able to trust the most.” He sighed heavily. “It was your aunt and uncle, wasn’t it? And your cousin. They did this to you.”

 

Potter glared at him, refusing to provide the verbal confirmation that would be redundant anyway.

 

Severus closed his eyes, trying to maintain his composure. Tears threatened, but he fought mightily to hold them back. _I’m sorry, Lily. I’m so sorry. I let you down._ He had promised to make sure that her beloved son would always be safe, always be protected, that the boy with her eyes would never come to any harm for as long as Severus could be there to prevent it.

 

But he had made the same mistake as last time. Sixteen years ago he had given the Potters into Dumbledore’s care, certain that the wise and powerful wizard of the Light could protect them. Lily had paid the price for his blind faith, proving Dumbledore’s fallibility. But on the same night as her death, the same night he had sworn to look after her son, he had allowed Dumbledore to take little Harry to live with his relatives. He would have taken the child himself, had he not been widely suspected to be a Death Eater and had he not been so consumed with grief that he could barely function. He should have questioned, though. He shouldn’t have let Dumbledore make the unilateral decision that he had about Harry’s placement.

 

He should have remembered the disgust on young Petunia’s face when she witnessed her sister’s first forays into magic, the hurt in Lily’s eyes when Petunia screamed that she was a freak, the way Petunia’s jealousy had gradually transformed into a deep hatred, the outright hostility she and her new husband had displayed when they attended the Evans-Potter wedding. They hated magic, they hated Lily and they hated anything to do with her or her world.

 

Severus, of all people, should have recognised the warning signs. Tobias Snape had hated magic, too, and resented his wife and son for the mysterious power they held. They had been repeatedly punished for something they had no control over – the way they had been born. So he knew what it was like.

 

At the very least, when Potter had first come to Hogwarts Severus should have been able to identify him as a child who was being abused at home. He knew what to look for; he knew the effects abuse could have on a child and how it came out in their health, emotions and actions. As an adult survivor as well as a teacher, it had been a personal mission of his to root out any children who were at risk or already suffering and make sure that they received the help they needed as soon as possible.

 

Somehow, Potter had slipped past him. No – he knew full well how. Severus had only seen the looks of James Potter, and the undeserved fame of a boy who took credit for his mother’s sacrifice and subsequent victory over the Dark Lord. He had seen arrogance, and recklessness, and Gryffindorish stupidity. He hadn’t wanted to see anything else and that made him partly culpable for the further mistreatment that the boy had received at his relatives’ hands from his first year at Hogwarts onwards. But Potter had played a part, too; he hadn’t told anyone and he had done a very effective job of hiding the truth.

 

Severus’s eyes flashed open as he suddenly realised just how skilled Potter’s deception had been.

 

“Potter, how is it that during our Occlumency sessions last year I saw nothing in your mind to intimate how you were being treated at home?”

 

A pause, as Potter considered not answering, but then he gave an irritable half-shrug with one shoulder. “I didn’t want anyone to know; least of all you.”

 

“So you blocked my access to those memories?”

 

“I pushed them to the back of my mind, like I always do. It’s not like they’re particularly fun to think about.”

 

Severus understood that well enough; one of the main reasons he had dedicated himself to mastering the skill of Occlumency was his desire to lock away bad memories and gain control over his emotions.

 

“Potter,” he exhaled in exasperation, “that is exactly the _point_ of Occlumency. Why did you not simply give all of your other memories the same treatment?”

 

Potter just stared at him, as though the thought had never occurred to him. “It gets crowded back there,” he answered finally, looking away.

 

Against his will, Severus’s heart constricted with sympathy.

 

“Harry…” He didn’t even know what to say.

 

Potter’s breath hitched unevenly and Severus thought for a moment that he was going to break down. He found himself moving forward, a buried instinct to offer comfort rising to the surface.

 

 “ _Stop it!”_ Potter yelled, lurching away from him. “Stop pretending that you care! I know you don’t. You couldn’t care less about me or my problems!”

 

“That is not true.” He wished it was. He wished it could be. He didn’t want to care, not about the offspring of James Potter, but those green eyes compelled him. He could picture Lily watching them through the veil, longing to be here in person to defend her son from the world that wanted to tear him down, tear him apart, but she was forced to be a bystander. It would break her heart. He could picture her tears; it was a mother’s worst nightmare, to see her child in pain, to be unable to rock, to sooth, to comfort.

 

And Harry had no one.

 

Severus, at least, had always had his own mother to care for him when he was hurt or upset after one of Tobias’s drunken rages. The young orphan should have had a surrogate mother in the form of his aunt, but while she might not have been quite as openly violent as her husband, Severus knew now that Petunia would have held no love for the boy.

 

“If I had known sooner, I would have done something about it,” Severus continued, not sure why he wanted Potter to believe that he was sincere. Maybe he was trying to convince Lily. “I would have taken you away from there.”

 

“You’re lying. You don’t care. You don’t. You hate me.”

 

The façade he had worn for all of these years had been too flawless. He had played his part too well. His excuse had been Dumbledore’s expectation that the Dark Lord would return and Severus would once again be called upon to spy for the Order. A Death Eater would not be friendly with the Boy Who Lived.  A Death Eater could not care for him. A Death Eater could show him nothing but contempt and disgust and hostility. If Severus had ever dared to show the boy an open kindness, to let him in through those walls of armour around his heart, then when the Dark Lord rose Severus would have been expected to hand the boy over immediately. And even if he hadn’t, even if Severus could have announced his true loyalties, he could never stand to grow attached to a Prophecy-marked child who could die in the struggle all too easily. His heart couldn’t take another devastating blow like that, not after losing Lily.

 

He refused to grow attached this time. He couldn’t care. Potter was right. He didn’t care.

 

Except… he did.

 

He should never have admitted it to himself. And he certainly could never let the words pass his lips, lest the Dark Lord discover the truth from someone whose Occlumency shields were not as strong.

 

Potter needed someone; that much was obvious. But it couldn’t be Severus.

 

He forced himself to return to his cool, professional demeanour. “Teachers have the responsibility, by law, to investigate and report any students they suspect have been abused or neglected. I take it, by your presence here, that Professor Dumbledore has acted to remove you from that abusive household?”

 

“I’m not staying with the Dursleys anymore,” Potter answered slowly, but Severus didn’t notice the way he had hedged the question.

 

“Then my interest in this matter has come to an end. If you will excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.”

 

Severus strode past them, trying his hardest to ignore the disappointment in those green eyes.

 

ooOOoo

 

The miniature gargoyle statue on Dumbledore’s desk announced that five students were ascending the staircase.

 

He set the damaged locket he had been examining next to the broken ring and shrivelled diary in his top right drawer, and turned to face the entrance to his office. A moment later there was a knock on the door.

 

Dumbledore’s fingers brushed over the heavy parchment of the letters laid out on his desk, lingering on the one that read in green ink: ‘Mr Harry J. Potter, Number 12 Grimmauld Place.’ He had a plan. Hopefully, it would succeed in repairing the damage to his relationship with Harry that had been inflicted during their last, disastrous conversation.

 

“Come in.”

 

The door opened and a floating glass ball filled with Basilisk fangs entered first, directed by Miss Granger’s wand. A neat flick of her wrist sent it sailing gently over to an empty bench, where it set itself down and grew stabilising legs so it could not roll away before her magic released it.

 

“I see you were successful,” he commented as the group came in and the door closed automatically behind them. A few of them nodded. “Did you have any difficulties?”

 

“No,” Mr Malfoy responded. “Potter already did all the hard work a few years ago. The rest was easy.”

 

“I am glad to hear that.”

 

“So what are we going to do with those?” Mr Weasley asked, gesturing to the fangs.

 

Dumbledore tapped his chin, pretending to think in the moment although he already had an answer ready. “Mr Malfoy had a good point earlier when he was talking about the need to have back-ups. Perhaps we should all claim one fang each and replace them away in locations both safe and secure, until they are needed. We can sheathe them in these,” he waved his wand and conjured a number of reinforced dragon-hide fang-shaped holsters, “so as to avoid any unfortunate accidents. What do you think?”

 

Mr Weasley picked up a holster and examined it closely. “Brilliant.”

 

Dumbledore waited patiently as the children set about carefully sheathing each individual fang, distributing them amongst themselves and discussing appropriate places to keep them. Once they had settled, but before one of them became restless enough in the stillness to suggest that they leave, Dumbledore spoke.

 

“Before you go, I have here your school letters,” he told them. “To prevent a repeat of the letter incident which allowed the Death Eaters to learn of your location, Harry, I thought it would be prudent to give them to you now.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“You will need books and supplies, of course, but given the current climate I do not think it wise for you to go wandering around Diagon Alley to do your shopping, even with Auror supervision. Are any of you familiar with the owl-ordering services that most magical retailers provide?”

 

Harry was the only one who shook his head; the others nodded or said ‘Yes’.

 

“But won’t that have the same problem as sending out our letters?” Mr Malfoy said.

 

Dumbledore lifted his index finger and smiled. “Ah yes, but that is why I was going to suggest that you list Hogwarts Castle as the postage address so that everything you need will be waiting here for you on September First.”

 

Mr Malfoy tilted his head in silent acknowledgement that it was a good idea, but Dumbledore could sense that he was still displeased with him. Since the young Malfoy had, apparently, already turned away from the Dark path taken by his father, Dumbledore wasn’t too concerned about him anymore. He could be displeased with the Headmaster if he wished, as long as he remained loyal to Harry. However, Dumbledore could not afford to let Harry slip from his grasp. He would have to make amends.

 

He passed out the letters and waited.

 

“You act as though we are supposed to open these here, in front of you,” Mr Malfoy said.

 

“Does it really matter?” Dumbledore returned. He supposed it didn’t, but he wanted to watch Harry’s reaction so he could judge how far his gesture had gone to win him over again.

 

Mr Malfoy shrugged and slit open his envelope, although there remained a glint of suspicion in his eyes. The others followed his example and Miss Granger poured eagerly over the book list while the two Weasley children seemed to be trying to mentally calculate how much money all the supplies would cost new. Mr Malfoy was only mildly interested, his eyes flicking up at random intervals to look at Dumbledore as though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

“What’s this?” Harry asked.

 

Dumbledore felt the thrill of anticipation.

 

Harry tipped the envelope and gave it a small shake. A gleaming badge fell into his hand.

 

Dumbledore restrained a smile.

 

“That’s a captain’s badge!” Mr Weasley exclaimed. “Blimey, Harry – you’re Quidditch Captain for Gryffindor!” He sounded equal parts excited for his friend and jealous of the place he had won. Dumbledore remembered that, as an eleven-year-old, Mr Weasley’s deepest desire had been to outshine his brothers by becoming both Head Boy and captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team in his seventh year at Hogwarts. Well, not every dream could come true. Dumbledore’s deepest desire certainly never would.

 

“Well done, Potter,” Mr Malfoy drawled, though sounding oddly sincere. “You were the obvious choice.”

 

“Congratulations,” Miss Weasley added.

 

“You know that means you have equal status with the prefects now?” Miss Granger told him. “You can use the prefects’ bathroom and everything.”

 

To Dumbledore’s frustration, Harry himself had not yet reacted. He was just looking down at the badge, tilting his hand back and forth to watch the way it glinted in the light.

 

“Was this your decision, sir?” he asked finally, glancing up. Where were the transports of joy that Dumbledore had been expecting?

 

“Madam Hooch and Professor McGonagall gave me their recommendations for the position, but yes, the final word was mine.”

 

Harry nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’m honoured. But…”

 

Dumbledore tried not to frown. This wasn’t going at all the way he had envisioned. “But what, my boy?”

 

“You told me at the end of last year that the reason you didn’t pick me to be a prefect was that you thought I had enough responsibility to be getting along with. Was that true?”

 

Dumbledore was dismayed to hear a hard edge in Harry’s tone. Somehow this had all gone terribly wrong.

 

“Yes,” he assured the boy. “I thought that, for you, the role of prefect on top of everything else would be an added pressure that was neither necessary nor helpful.”

 

Harry nodded again. “That’s what you led me to believe and I thought it made sense. Until you gave me this.” He held up the badge to the light.

 

“Harry, you are a natural born Quidditch player, with more skill than has been seen in Hogwarts for many years. In addition, you have been on the team the longest and you are a natural leader. It was the logical choice.”

 

“I do love playing Quidditch, Professor. I love flying and the thrill of the game. But surely being captain of the team requires greater input of time, effort and planning than a normal player is expected to put in.”

 

“Well, yes, I suppose-”

 

“Then I have to decline,” Harry said, ignoring the sounds of surprise and dismay from his friends. “I am selfish – I want to keep my position as Seeker. But as you have said, I have other, more important, responsibilities. I am, essentially, the ‘Chosen One’. I have to fight Voldemort and most of my energies have to be put to the pursuit of that goal. I need to focus on finding and destroying the remaining Horcruxes, and on preparing myself for the battle that is coming. I can’t be captain.”

 

Dumbledore was shocked. Quidditch was Harry’s joy and passion in life. He had thought he would leap at the chance to be captain, not refuse to accept the position and imply that he, Dumbledore, had made the wrong choice.

 

“I… understand.”

 

“I would like to nominate a possible replacement for me, though, sir, if I could.”

 

Dumbledore gestured for him to go on, struggling to form logical sentences in his mind and express them out loud.

 

“Someone who loves the game even more than I do. Someone who follows the international scoreboards and knows every trick, every manoeuvre, every strategy by heart. Someone who is an excellent tactician and a leader in his own way. Someone already on the team… and standing in this room.” Harry smiled tentatively over at his best friend. “Ron Weasley.”

 

It took him a moment to process what had been said and then Mr Weasley’s jaw dropped. “Me?” he squeaked.

 

“Yes,” Harry answered simply.

 

“But-but- But why?”

 

“Because I can’t do it, but I believe that you can.”

 

“But – I’m a terrible Keeper!” he spluttered. “Why would you want me as your captain?”

 

“Everything I said was true. You know Quidditch inside out and you have a better brain for tactics than I ever will. Besides, I know how much you want this, how much it means to you.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, I guess, but-”

 

“I believe in you, Ron,” Harry said firmly. “One hundred per cent. You can do this.”

 

“Harry’s right, Ron,” Miss Granger pitched in.

 

“I believe in you, too,” Miss Weasley added.

 

Dumbledore saw what they were doing. Mr Weasley was a talented player, but he suffered terribly from nerves and his performance on the field faltered whenever he let the pressure get to him. In this moment, his friends were making a huge effort to boost his confidence. And it appeared to be working.

 

A slow grin was spreading across Mr Weasley’s face.  “You really think so?”

 

“I know so,” Harry reiterated. “You’ll be the greatest Quidditch captain that Gryffindor has seen yet.”

 

“You’re sure I can do this?”

 

“Positive.”

 

Mr Weasley looked around at all the supportive faces of his friends. He took a breath. “I’ll do it, then! If Professor Dumbledore lets me, of course.”

 

Dumbledore could only hope that conceding would make Harry happy, since his first bid had failed spectacularly. “I have no objections. I think you would make a fine captain for Gryffindor.”

 

Harry smiled, but at Mr Weasley, not at him. “Well there you have it. This,” he stretched out his hand, “belongs to you.” He dropped the badge into Mr Weasley’s open palm. “Captain Ronald Weasley.”

 

Dumbledore had never seen the youngest Weasley son look so happy, or so excited.

 

“Blimey,” he exhaled in wonderment, gazing down at the badge. “Captain. Wait until Mum and Dad hear about this…”

 

“I’m sure they will be very proud,” Miss Granger told him, nudging his shoulder fondly with her own.

 

“Go on, then, mate,” Harry said. “Let’s see you put it on.”

 

Mr Weasley pinned it on the front of his robes proudly, grinning from ear to ear when he caught sight of his reflection in the glass doors of a nearby cabinet.

 

“It suits you,” Mr Malfoy said, finally contributing a word of encouragement – which further emphasised to Dumbledore how much the young Slytherin had changed. A couple of months ago he wouldn’t have said anything of the sort, probably breaking into another insulting round of ‘Weasley is our King’ instead with the deliberate intention of shattering Mr Weasley’s confidence. His support now made the new Gryffindor Quidditch captain puff out his chest with pride.

 

“Thanks guys,” Mr Weasley said. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

 

“Of course you won’t, Ron,” Harry said.

 

“We should celebrate!” Miss Weasley suggested. “A round of butterbeers back at the house, to toast our new captain and to cheer in a successful run for us to the House Cup this year.”

 

“Close behind Slytherin,” Mr Malfoy quipped in good-natured rivalry.

 

He and Mr Weasley started happily quibbling.

 

Harry moved over to the fireplace and took a small handful of Floo Powder. He passed the pot around to the others and then looked back over his shoulder to say, “Thanks, Professor. We’ll see you in a few weeks when school starts up again.”

 

Just like that, before even waiting for a reply, Harry stated his destination clearly and tossed the powder into the fire. When the emerald green flames flared up, he stepped into them and vanished. His friends exited in kind, until Dumbledore was left alone in his office with only Fawkes for company.

 

Dumbledore sat down behind his desk and leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh, lifting a hand to massage his aching temples. He’d had all these plans laid carefully in place, all well thought out and prepared, and in the course of one evening they had been obliterated.

 

Maintaining influence over Harry through the ties of a close personal relationship was crucial to Dumbledore’s ultimate scheme. Losing his loyalty and unwavering faith was not something that the overall war effort could afford, because Dumbledore needed to train and mould Harry into the hero he was purported to be. When the time came, Harry had to be able to make the final sacrifice. Everything hinged on that moment.

 

But if something went wrong… if Harry was unwilling to do what was necessary… Dumbledore might have to resort to less favourable measures.

 

ooOOoo


	27. Crossroads

 

The last two weeks of August passed by at a leisurely pace, with no further incidents occurring to disturb their holidays.

 

Ginny returned home to the Burrow, wanting to be closer to her family and to support her dad. She gave them regular updates via Fire-call, and they were all relieved to hear that Mrs Weasley was making a steady recovery. Mr Weasley had kept up an almost constant vigil at her bedside for the first few days, but once she was awake and coherent for longer periods of time she had apparently insisted that he return to doing short shifts at work and looking after the Burrow in her absence.

 

Both Weasley parents had wanted Harry, Hermione, Ron and Malfoy to return home, but Harry had passed on a letter through Ginny politely declining, with the explanation that he didn’t want to add any strain to the household while Mrs Weasley was hurt as well as the assurances that they were safe. The others, predictably, wouldn’t go without him; he had given them the option and they had unanimously shot him down. To be honest, he didn’t mind. It was nice to have the company of friends, especially since he had decided to leave Hedwig at the Burrow where she would be able to fly around outdoors rather than being cooped up inside here with him.

 

When Kreacher was told of the locket’s destruction and Malfoy verified the account that Harry gave of the incident, the house elf had undergone a complete transformation. The old, wrinkled face had crinkled into a smile and those large ears had flapped enthusiastically as the elf bounced up and down, thanking all of them profusely for fulfilling the dying wish of Good Master Regulus. The house brightened up considerably as Kreacher went about his cleaning duties with renewed vigour and the delicious meals he made for them had even Harry going back for (small) second helpings. Grimmauld Place lost much of its dark shroud and sometimes Harry was able to forget how much Sirius had hated living here.

 

Hermione spent most of her time pouring through the books in the library. Harry joined her sometimes, copying out all the information they had found on Horcruxes into a small notebook and adding notes beneath it of what they had deduced themselves, found out from Dumbledore and achieved so far. No new flashes of inspiration came to him about where the remaining Horcruxes could be hidden or what the unknown object could be. He tried researching Rowena Ravenclaw, but the only notable artefact she had to her name was a diadem that had been lost for centuries. The lack of progress was more than a little frustrating, especially when the Daily Prophet brought regular news of more Muggle families that had been slaughtered and more witches and wizards who had gone missing.

 

He reminded himself that stripping Voldemort of his immortality was only half of the struggle; Harry needed to be able to fight him in person and emerge victorious. He might have earned an ‘Outstanding’ in his Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L, but against a wizard as Dark and powerful as Voldemort he knew that school-level magic and abilities would not be nearly enough.

 

Harry started a training regime in the basement. He began with Muggle exercises that would build up his physical fitness, strengthen and tone his muscles and heighten his reflexes. Ron was dubious at first, but it was actually Malfoy who pointed out to him the dangers of relying on magic alone.

 

“A wizarding battle is not just about pointing wands and shooting spells,” he said. “A dueller who wants to survive needs to be quick and agile, nimble on their feet, resilient and strong in both body and mind. If you stand in one place you make yourself an easy target and all too soon a curse will come your way that your shields will be unable to withstand.”

 

Harry nodded. “Being able to run and dodge is just as important as knowing which spells to use, Ron – perhaps even more so, since we will be coming up against wizards who have many more years of knowledge and experience than we do. I would be long dead by now if Harry-hunting hadn’t taught me to be so fast.”

 

“Harry-hunting?” Malfoy repeated, his features darkening into a scowl.

 

Harry regretted the slip of his tongue, but knew that now he had mentioned it he wouldn’t be able to get away without giving an explanation. “A game my cousin and his gang used to play when we were kids,” he told them reluctantly. “After the first few times, they didn’t catch me very often.”

 

Malfoy turned around and punched the manikin Harry had set up to practice against so hard that its head was nearly knocked off. Harry didn’t say anything, but he felt a small, warm glow inside at the thought that Malfoy was angry on his behalf. Somehow, it made the memories easier to bear.

 

Hermione did the exercises with them and when they moved into practicing magic she supplemented their database of known spells with others she had discovered during her research. When not building up new skills they honed the old, duelling each other one-on-one or in pairs with Stunning, Disarming and Shielding spells only.

 

Harry could feel that they were improving and he was gaining ideas that could be used for the DA if it continued this year as an extracurricular study group. He wanted to make sure that the students he had taught last year – and others, too – would be able to defend themselves in case of attack. He hoped that the new DADA teacher would be competent as well as supportive of this goal, because he didn’t want to spend another year using all of his energy to fight against someone like Umbridge.

 

They ordered their school books as Dumbledore suggested, though Hermione bemoaned the fact that she wouldn’t be able to read them ahead of time. They assured her that once back at school, with a brain like hers, she would have no trouble memorising them all cover to cover long before they had any tests or exams to worry about.

 

Malfoy insisted that they all spend some time resting and recreating as well, so he dragged Ron away from his Quidditch guides and strategy board to play chess with him, Hermione away from the library to challenge her to a Common Wizarding Knowledge Quiz, and Harry away from his training to fly around in a cavernous room that had to have had multiple extension charms put on it to fit inside the house. He convinced them all to play numerous rounds of Exploding Snap, too, which they all enjoyed immensely.

 

In the last few days of the holidays, though, Malfoy became quieter and more prone to losing himself in thought. The other two didn’t notice the change, too caught up in the back-to-school buzz of tension and excitement. Hermione was torn between anxiety and anticipation over the beginning of their N.E.W.T classes and all the extra work that would come with it, and Ron alternated between freaking out about Quidditch and Oliver Wood-style enthusiasm. They were both excited about seeing their friends again and the excitement tended to dominate their emotions.

 

Harry himself didn’t know what to feel. He wanted to feel the same as he had in previous years: glad to be going home. But whenever he thought about it nausea would squirm in his gut. There would be so many people. So many eyes on him. He didn’t know if he could pull on the mask as well as he used to. He didn’t know if he could still pretend to be that boy they all thought they knew.

 

But Malfoy seemed almost equally as pensive about going back; perhaps even more so, though Harry couldn’t quite tell because the blonde was far more adept at hiding his emotions than Harry was capable of at the moment.

 

Harry felt like he should approach Malfoy somehow, to ask him what was bothering him. It was a turn of the tables that he hadn’t been expecting, though… He had become used to Malfoy looking out for him and everything up until now had been about Harry’s problems, Harry’s issues. Not once had Harry thought to ask how Malfoy was coping with everything that had happened to him, changed for him, this summer. He was such a git.

 

“Hey, Malfoy…” he began hesitantly, coming to sit beside him on the window seat. Malfoy had been gazing blankly out at the street for the past fifteen minutes and it had taken Harry this long to work up the courage to approach him.

 

“Potter,” he acknowledged, without turning his fixated gaze from a flickering lamppost out in the street.

 

“You’ve been quiet,” Harry began lamely. “Is something… is something wrong?”

 

Malfoy’s shoulder twitched in a small shrug. “Everything is wrong, isn’t it? There is a war going on. The lines are being drawn in the sand and everyone has to choose a side. People are dying.”

 

Harry frowned a little. The war, bad as it may be, was nothing new and he was fairly sure that Malfoy’s change in demeanour was a recent thing.

 

“I, ah…” Merlin, he was so bad at this. He should have made Hermione do it. “I meant for you. You seem… I don’t know. Worried?”

 

“Is that illegal now?”

 

“No… I just thought, maybe something had happened in the past few days to upset you.” A terrible idea occurred to him. “Did I-?”

 

“For Salazar’s sake, Potter, why do you always jump to the conclusion that you are to blame for the entropy of the entire universe? Not everything is your fault.”

 

Harry was relieved to know that he hadn’t been the one to do something to upset the blonde. “But there is something, then?”

 

The half-shrug again. “I have just been thinking. And there aren’t many cheerful things to think about these days.”

 

“School starts again next week,” Harry pointed out.

 

Malfoy’s head turned away from him, the movement slight, but significant. “Yes it does.”

 

“You don’t want to go back?”

 

“I prefer holidays,” he deflected. “Doesn’t everyone?”

 

 _Not me,_ Harry thought. The summer break was always his least favourite time of the year. “I would have thought going back to school would be a welcome relief after everything that has happened. This has got to have been pretty much your worst summer holiday ever.”

 

He gave a quiet snort. “And you think the school year will be any better?”

 

Harry’s stomach clenched. “You don’t?”

 

Malfoy must have heard something in his voice, because he turned around to look at him properly, the steel in his eyes softening. “Sure it will. You will be safe there. No one would dare to try to hurt you with Dumbledore and a rotation of Aurors around all the time.”

 

There was a slight comfort to be had in that, Harry supposed, but he still felt as though he was missing something from this conversation. Malfoy was nervous about returning to Hogwarts, and he was at a loss for the reason why.

 

ooOOoo

 

September the First dawned bright and clear. Outside in the street of Grimmauld Place, as sunlight slowly spilled onto the cobblestones, all remained peaceful and quiet. The Muggles living in nearby houses were still in bed dreaming, allowed to sleep in because it was a Sunday and intending to make the most of every moment of restful bliss.

 

Inside Number 12, it was another story entirely.

 

Granger had, predictably, packed her trunk in a very neat and organised manner the previous day, and spent the morning hounding the rest of them to get ready. Ron had belongings strewn all over the house and scrambled around trying to locate everything before time ran out, throwing it all haphazardly into his trunk only to have Granger sigh loudly in exasperation and repack it for him. Potter didn’t have much left to do, since he had barely unpacked in the first place, but he took his time to do it carefully so that Granger wouldn’t have cause to yell at him.

 

Draco packed slowly.

 

He pulled one of his school robes out of the drawers and refolded it so that the Slytherin crest on the front was visible. He smoothed over it with his thumb, gazing at the symbol of his House. It represented the statement of his essential characteristics, a large portion of his identity and the group of students who made up his ‘family’ inside Hogwarts. Gaining his rightful place in Slytherin had been a great source of pride for Draco. What had Potter called him that time? Pureblood prince? It was a pompous title, but he had basically set himself up that way. He had acted like an arrogant princeling, lording his wealth and his heritage over all the other students. He got away with it most of the time – in large part because of his father. As much as many of them may have wanted to, no one had been willing to attempt to take him down a notch or two for fear of the repercussions that Lucius could bring to bear on them and their families.

 

The friendships he made had been based on fear of his father, attraction to his wealth, or respect for his blood status. Draco had never minded what the foundations were, with an attitude of ‘whatever works’. But what Potter, Granger and Weasley had together was so different. So genuine. What Draco had was false pretences. And he strongly doubted he even had those anymore.

 

He sighed and placed the set of robes in the trunk, moving to retrieve the next.

 

“Malfoy! Breakfast is on the table!” Ron yelled up the stairs.

 

He wasn’t hungry, but Potter had been giving him odd, worried glances regularly over the past few days and Draco didn’t want to give him any more cause for concern. He could tell that Potter was nervous enough about going back to Hogwarts as it was. Besides, Draco didn’t want to set a bad example for the boy who had only recently regained a healthy weight.

 

So he finished his packing at a faster pace, trying not to give himself the opportunity to dwell on where he was going or what he was likely to find when he got there, and made his way down to the kitchen.

 

Ron had already dug in, but Granger and Potter were waiting politely for him to join them. He nodded as he sat.

 

“So how are we getting there?” Granger asked, putting a delicate spoonful of porridge to her lips.

 

“Knight Bus?” Ron suggested, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth whole. Both Draco and Granger grimaced, but refrained from commenting on his table etiquette.

 

“Don’t you think that is too public?” Draco said.

 

Ron shrugged. “That’s how Hermione, Ginny and I got here. We didn’t have any trouble.”

 

“You’re not the Chosen One,” Draco pointed out. “How about the Floo Network?”

 

Potter blinked. “You can Floo to Platform 9 and 3/4s?”

 

Draco wasn’t surprised that he had never noticed the line of fireplaces inset into the back wall of the platform, since he was probably accustomed to using Muggle forms of transport to get to and from the station. “Yes. My mother and I use it every year.” He felt a pang of loneliness at the thought of his mother; he hadn’t seen her in what seemed like forever and wasn’t far off, considering the last time he had spent any quality time with her had been in the Christmas holidays last year.

 

“That sounds like a good idea, then,” Granger said. “As long as there are no unpleasant surprises waiting for us at the other end.”

 

“That,” said a voice, which was both somewhat familiar and shocking to hear, “is where we come in.”

 

And none other than Professor Lupin – ex Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and a werewolf to boot – stepped through the doorway. A young woman with shocking pink hair followed him in, giving Potter a smile and a wink.

 

“Remus! Tonks!” Potter exclaimed, relaxing from the battle-ready position he had assumed instinctively as soon as he had heard the first sound the intruders made. “How on earth did you sneak up on us like that?”

 

The woman – Tonks, he assumed, which was a surname Draco vaguely recognised as being part of his extensive family tree, although it wasn’t pureblood – beamed brightly. “I’ve been working on my stealth!” she announced, bounding forward in her excitement and promptly knocking into a chair with a distinct lack of coordination. She still had a way to go in that area, then, Draco thought.

 

“That’s great, Tonks,” Potter told her. “But, ah, what are the two of you doing here?”

 

“Dumbledore sent us to make sure that you lot made it to the Hogwarts Express safely,” Lupin explained. “And I wasn’t about to object. I’ve been worried about you, Harry.”

 

Potter’s cheeks flushed slightly and he looked down at the ground before meeting the concerned gaze of his ex-teacher. “I’m fine.”

 

There was more emotion in Lupin’s expression than Draco expected, until he remembered how close he and Potter had been in third year, the fact that Lupin had been one of James Potter’s closest friends, and the strong likelihood that he was in the Order (thus in a position to maintain a relationship with Potter).

 

“I miss him too,” Lupin said gently, the shadow of grief in his eyes. “There is no shame in admitting it, Harry.”

 

They were talking about Sirius, Draco realised. Of course; the werewolf had been Black’s friend, so naturally he mourned the loss. However, Draco doubted he – or anyone for that matter – could ever truly comprehend the depth of Potter’s grief.

 

“I know,” Potter said quietly. “But I can’t… I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry…”

 

Lupin nodded, tucking his own emotions away. Draco was glad that he made no move to try to hug Potter, for both of their sakes. Lupin wouldn’t have understood the unintentional rejection and it would upset Potter to think he had hurt the feelings of his friend.

 

Tonks touched Lupin’s arm in a fleeting gesture of comfort and support. “We should probably head off soon,” she said. “Everyone all packed?”

 

Ron’s response was to leap up from his chair and run from the room, likely having remembered yet another item that he had left somewhere. The rest of them said that they were.

 

Lupin _Accio_ -d their trunks, which saved them from having to lug the heavy weights down the stairs manually. Ron’s flew into the room with its lid still hanging open, a red-faced Ron chasing it with his Quidditch gloves outstretched.

 

Lupin’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Sorry, Ronald.”

 

Ron halted and dropped the gloves into his trunk, breathing heavily. “‘s fine,” he gasped. “No problem.”

 

Another flick of Lupin’s wand closed the lid. “Is that everything, then? What about the owls?”

 

“Ginny promised she would bring Hedwig and Pigwidgeon with her,” Potter said.

 

When no one spoke up about anything else that was missing, Lupin shrank the trunks and handed them out to be placed in pockets for ease of transportation. It wasn’t generally a good idea to attempt travel by Floo with large, bulky items in tow.

 

“Tonks and I will go first,” Lupin told them. “Give us two minutes to scope out the area and check for any threats. If there is any danger, Tonks will come straight back through and you will have to use Portkey or Floo directly to the castle. If we determine that it is safe, I will Fire-call and you can all come through one at a time. Harry and Draco last, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Actually-” Harry started, but Granger and Ron overrode him with firm agreement to the plan.

 

“Righto,” Tonks said brightly. “See you soon.”

 

The all-clear was Fire-called through a couple of minutes later and they were able to go through without incident.

 

“We’re earlier than usual,” Ron commented, glancing up at the large clock on display. It was seven minutes to eleven.

 

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “This is early?”

 

Ron smiled sheepishly. “We usually end up running for the train.”

 

“And missing it,” Granger cut in disapprovingly.

 

“That was just the once,” Ron whined. “And it was really Dobby’s fault, not ours.”

 

Ah, the flying car incident of second year. Draco remembered that. The Howler Ron had received from his mother in punishment had been utterly priceless.

 

“Come on, let’s get your baggage stowed,” Lupin said. “Ron, Hermione and Draco, I assume your first stop will be the prefects’ carriage?”

 

Granger nodded, but Ron shot a guilty look towards Potter and Draco shared the sentiment. It didn’t feel right to leave him on his own.

 

At that moment, a voice called out in greeting, “Hey Harry!”

 

It was Longbottom, hurrying towards them. The disdainful sneer was on Draco’s features in an instant, an automatic reaction to the so-called pureblood who was a bumbling klutz with very little magical ability… and a friend of Potter’s. Draco belatedly schooled his expression, feeling distinctly awkward. He still hadn’t made his decision yet.

 

The Gryffindor trio greeted their friend in kind, asking after his holidays and general wellbeing. Draco averted his gaze from the scene, unconsciously edging away from them. People on the platform were beginning to look in their direction with undisguised curiosity, but most eyes were on Potter. He hoped he hadn’t been noticed yet, except that he could feel at least one pair of eyes on him. He shrank into the shadows more, gaze searching the crowd… and then their blue eyes met.

 

His breath whooshed out of him.

 

“Mother,” he whispered.

 

They stared in a long moment of connection across the vast distance, a surge of homesickness sweeping over Draco as he realised just how much he missed her. He would go over to her, but if they were seen together by any Slytherins it would get back to the Death Eaters and her life would be in danger. He couldn’t-

 

“Here,” Potter said quietly. Draco jumped – he hadn’t noticed the other boy come up beside him.

 

“What?”

 

Potter’s gaze flicked over to where Draco’s mother hid on the other end of the platform. “Take this,” he said, holding out a bundle of fabric that shimmered oddly. “You won’t be seen.”

 

“An Invisibility Cloak,” Draco breathed in recognition, accepting it with a slight feeling of awe. A lot of mysterious things about Potter and his little escapades at school suddenly made sense. He almost couldn’t believe that Potter would tell him about it, let alone allow him to borrow it. “Where did you get it?”

 

“It was my dad’s,” Potter replied simply. “Go on, I know you want to see her, and if that look of longing on her face is anything to go by, I would say she wants to see you, too.” There was a tinge of sadness in his voice. “You have a few minutes before you have to board the train. And don’t worry about me, I can just sit in a compartment with Neville and Luna. Give the cloak back to me when we reach Hogwarts.”

 

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He swept the cloak around his shoulders and pulled it up over his head, vanishing from sight.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured and Potter nodded, returning to the little reunion.

 

Draco slipped quietly and carefully through the swelling crowd, glancing back every so often to check that Potter was okay but focused mainly on his destination. He joined her behind the pillar and announced himself with a quiet, “Good morning, Mother.”

 

She spun, startled, and he slipped the cloak off his head so that she could see where he was.

 

“Draco,” she exhaled, tears welling up in her eyes. But she glanced around worriedly, still afraid of being seen.

 

He stepped forward and engulfed her in the protection of the cloak, his arms going around her tightly at the same time. It took her a moment to realise that she was no longer visible to the public and then her arms encircled him, too.

 

“Oh Draco, my son. You are alright. You are safe. I was so worried about you…”

 

He ducked his face into her neck, aware that he was clinging but unable to help himself. Potter was right; this had been his worst summer ever. He had missed his parents dearly, fearing for their safety. He had been attacked and threatened, almost killed on more than one occasion and actually hit with the Cruciatus curse which was even worse. He had witnessed horrors beyond his imagining, and had crises of both conscience and identity. His summer paled in comparison to Potter’s, though, so he had felt that he had no right to feel sorry for himself.

 

But here was comfort and love, real and tangible and safe, and _his_.

 

“I love you, Mother,” he mumbled. It had gone unsaid for years and he was sure that she knew, but he felt he had to tell her out loud. The way things were at the moment, he had no way of knowing when he would next be able to see her, provided nothing happened to either of them and they were able to see each other at all.

 

A pause. “I love you, too, my child. Promise me you will stay safe.”

 

He couldn’t promise. Breaking from the Dark Lord and going to stay with Potter had been about ensuring his safety at first, but somewhere along the way Draco had moved from not wanting to join the Dark Lord but preferring to stay out of his way, to wanting to actively join the fight against him. He had essentially placed himself in even more danger than he had been in to start with.

 

“I’ll try,” he assured her quietly, pulling away a bit so he could look up into her eyes. “And you?”

 

“I am fine, Draco. Do not concern yourself.”

 

“The Dark Lord… Aunt Bellatrix... they haven’t…?”

 

“They believed the tale I told them. They are of the opinion that I have – failed – as your mother, but Bella and our blood status protect me still.”

 

“You have not failed, Mother. You gave me the opportunity to be my own person and to make my own choices. Everything you have done has been in my best interest and I am grateful.”

 

She hugged him closer in response and then reluctantly let go. “The train will be leaving soon,” she whispered.

 

He kissed her on the cheek, then allowed her to slip out from under the cloak and disappear into the shadows. He waited long enough for her to achieve a safe distance away from him before he pulled the cloak from around his shoulders and placed it in one of the pockets of his robe.

 

Wiping his eyes, Draco stepped out into view and made his way across to the train. This time, many eyes followed him, but he did his best to ignore them. Taking a deep breath, he made to board, and then Crabbe and Goyle appeared in front of him.

 

“Malfoy,” Crabbe growled.

 

Draco was sure they had grown over the summer. He didn’t remember the two of them every being so big or… menacing… before.

 

“Crabbe, Goyle,” he greeted them cordially. “You have had a good summer, I hope?”

 

Crabbe grunted and cracked his knuckles.

 

“We know what you did, Malfoy,” Goyle said. The dark glare he wore had never been aimed in Draco’s direction before. “Did you think no one would find out?”

 

“I haven’t done anything,” Draco lied, even though he knew full well what they were talking about.

 

“You were seen,” Crabbe snarled. “In a Muggle-” he spat at the ground, “-neighbourhood. You went running to Potter with your tail between your yellow-stained legs. Coward.”

 

“Traitor,” Goyle hissed. “You fought alongside that filthy mudblood lover against your own kind. You helped to defend that disgusting house of Blood Traitors.”

 

The crucial moment. Should he deny it all as a clever and necessary ruse, or admit the truth? Crabbe’s knuckles were still cracking in an unspoken threat and Goyle’s fist was beginning to rhythmically thump the palm of his other hand.

 

“Is there a problem here boys?” Tonks asked sweetly, coming up beside them. “I would hate to have to hand out detentions before term had even started.”

 

“Who the hell are you?” Goyle snapped.

 

She smiled. “Professor Tonks. Hogwarts’ new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Since I know you don’t want to get on my bad side this early, shall I assume there is no trouble here?”

 

“Right,” Crabbe grunted, shooting Draco a dark look before dragging Goyle with him up into the train.

 

“Unfriendly, aren’t they,” Tonks observed cheerfully. “Harry asked me to give you a hand.”

 

“I was handling it.”

 

“Sure thing. I’ll see you at school, Draco.” She smiled and waved him onto the Hogwarts Express.

 

He made his way straight to the prefects’ carriage as the train gave a loud whistle and slowly began to move forward. Walking down the corridors, he deliberately avoided glancing to the sides where he knew hundreds of students were seated and could well be watching him pass with unfriendly eyes. If Crabbe and Goyle were anything to go by, expecting merely cold receptions from all those people he used to count as peers and friends would be hoping too much.

 

How he wished he could flee back to the simplicity of life at Grimmauld Place.

 

Draco reached his destination and hesitated outside the door, trying to sooth nerves that had been tense and raw for days now. The calm didn’t come, but he had to enter anyway.

 

The Head Girl – a Ravenclaw, he noted – was already speaking. “…so for the sake of our new fifth year prefects (and for some of those older prefects as well who have a tendency to get a bit carried away), I will be giving a brief overview of our duties, responsibilities, rules and privil – ah. Draco Malfoy. Nice of you to join us.”

 

All eyes turned on him.

 

“Apologies for my tardiness,” Draco drawled, with the barest hint of sarcasm in his tone that discerning Slytherins would appreciate. Pansy Parkinson in particular usually enjoyed his subtle displays of insolence but, when his gaze flicked to where she sat in the corner, she sniffed haughtily and turned her head away from him. The two seventh year Slytherins sneered, pleased by the rejection, and folded their arms to give indication of the same. All three were children of Death Eaters.

 

The two new Slytherin prefects – one of them, Marietta, a fourth generation pureblood with no direct ties to the Dark Lord, and the other, Andrew, an unadvertised half blood – didn’t seem to understand what was going on. There had been a hint of recognition and respect in their eyes when he came into the room, but they were Slytherins. They saw that the seniors of the House were ostracising him and, though they did not know the reason, they were not going to dispute it. Already they were pushing their chairs back away from him, adopting postures that let him know he was unwelcome.

 

He couldn’t blame them, since it was as much about self-preservation as anything. That was the way it worked in Slytherin. The weakest of the pack were left to fend for themselves. If they survived, the experience made them stronger and if they didn’t, it was clear that they had been underserving of the aid and support of the pack from the beginning. No one was going to help him.

 

“Take a seat,” the Head Girl instructed, doing a respectable job of keeping the irritation out of her voice.

 

He sat in his place with the other Slytherins, but though none of them tried to prevent him from doing so, their bodies all angled away from him. He ensured that his face remained impassive. If he betrayed any hint of feeling hurt by their actions, it would only confirm his weakness in their eyes.

 

The Head Girl went on to outline, in excruciating detail, the job of a prefect and everything it entailed.

 

Draco was stiff and uncomfortable, but trying to maintain an air of both boredom and attentiveness. Normally he wouldn’t have bothered to listen, having heard it all before, but if he let his thoughts wander they inevitably ran back towards a chaotic whirlwind of panic and anxiety.

 

“…allowed to dock points from students for the following infractions…”

 

It was just – he had known this was coming, but he didn’t realise how fast it would be, or how jarring. Crabbe and Goyle had been his best friends (or, at least, his most loyal cronies) since they were all toddlers and Pansy had fawned over him constantly. He had been a well-known and well-respected Slytherin and now he was essentially an outcast.

 

“…maximum of 50 points… can also recommend detentions, but the power to assign them remains with your Head of House…”

 

He had brought this on himself. The damage was done. But his mind still scrambled for a loophole, an escape, some solution that could get him out of this mess, this precarious predicament. Claiming _Imperious_ , as his father had once done, or severing all ties with Potter and his friends were the most obvious options. They would make his life easier, safer, and Draco Malfoy wasn’t one to choose the more difficult path.

 

“…expected to occasionally do a few rounds before curfew to send any stragglers off to bed…”

 

The question was: had he changed, or hadn’t he? Was he a different person now, or wasn’t he? Could he make the tough choice and remain ostracised from his House in favour of doing what he had come to realise was the right thing? If he made the selfish choice instead, could he bear to see the hurt and disappointment in Potter’s eyes and know he had been the one to put it there?

 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know if he could make this decision. But he did know that it had to be one or the other. And once he chose it would be virtually impossible to change his mind. He would have to live with the consequences, or perhaps die because of them.

 

“…remember to patrol up and down the train a few times during the journey. Report any major incidents to us. Otherwise, just ensure that no one is up to any mischief and that everything stays fairly calm. Okay?”

 

There were murmurs of assent and the prefects began to leave the carriage. Draco hung back, his mouth dry. Even something as simple as this – the train ride to Hogwarts – presented him with a crisis of indecision. Who should he sit with? Should he patrol the whole time? But he never did that; it was boring and beneath him, and it would force him to pass by practically every student in the school which was not what he wanted at all. Sitting with Potter and his friends would be akin to declaring his allegiance outright. Sitting with a group of Slytherins would be awkward and uncomfortable, and that was if they would even permit him to enter one of their compartments in the first place. He was unlikely to find an empty compartment either, and that left him with very few options beyond gate-crashing a Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw party.

 

As Ron walked past Draco’s chair he made to say something and Draco caught his breath, aware that the Slytherin prefects were watching. But before a word could escape his mouth, Granger stomped surreptitiously on Ron’s foot and forced him to keep moving.

 

Salazar, but that girl was perceptive. Draco had been deliberately schooling his expression so as not to give any of his thoughts away, but somehow she must have read the conflict in him. She also knew well enough to leave the matter alone until his mind was made up, rather than say or do anything that would force his hand. Pansy, however, had no such reticence.

 

When there was no one left in the carriage but the two of them Pansy stepped closer, into his personal space, as though she was going to smooth out his collar or tuck back an errant strand of hair the same way she had on many other occasions. Not this time, though.

 

She held herself there, inches away from him, not moving. She stared into his eyes and he saw in hers an echo of the feelings she had once convinced herself she felt towards him as her likely betrothed. He had never bothered to try to feel the same way but, since her affection had been convenient, he had been content to use her until another, more attractive option presented itself. Guilt squirmed in his gut. When her face abruptly twisted and her hand came up he didn’t try to block the blow.

 

The force of the slap was enough to snap his head sideways and send red-hot pain blossoming across his cheek. He knew there would be a livid hand-shaped mark there within moments, but resisted the urge to comfort his wound.

 

“You have betrayed us,” Pansy told him, her voice shaking with a quiet rage. “You have spat upon the values of your House, violated the Slytherin code and neglected your responsibilities. You have besmirched your family’s honour, smeared the Malfoy name and shamed yourself through your actions. But worst of all, you have angered, insulted and betrayed your rightful master. The Dark Lord is not forgiving, Draco. You will feel his wrath. If you ever step out from behind the skirts of Gryffindor protectors, what he has in store for you will make that slap seem like a lover’s caress.” Her glare darkened as she leaned in, her breath ghosting over his skin. “And I want to be there to see you suffer.”

 

She spat in his face, and stormed from the carriage.

 

ooOOoo


	28. Changing Colours

 

There was freedom in this, Draco realised as he strolled casually down the corridor.

 

Freedom, power, and a distinct opportunity for causing mischief if he felt so inclined. He was certain that Fred and George Weasley would not hesitate to wreak havoc on the Hogwarts Express if they possessed the advantage he did now, and he had to admit that he was sorely tempted by the idea. But another use for it had occurred to him, which appealed far more to his Slytherin nature. Being able to wander the train unseen was all well and good – especially since it enabled him to relax and stop worrying, at least for a short time, about the decision he had yet to make – but he would be remiss if he did not use this chance to its full potential.

 

And so he made his way purposefully toward the Slytherin compartments, the trailing hem of Potter’s Invisibility Cloak rustling quietly around his ankles.

 

No one heard him pass and no one saw him. There were no suspicious glances or angry glares aimed in his direction, no acerbic comments or deliberate snubs. The other students all went about their business as though he wasn’t there, because, of course, they had no way of knowing that an invisible Draco Malfoy was in their midst, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. While the Slytherins he had encountered so far had not displayed any unwillingness to let him know their revised opinions of him, he was sure there would be more information to be gleaned from them here and now, when they were unaware that he was listening.

 

He decided to enter Pansy’s compartment first – the compartment that, had he rejected his mother’s plea to Dumbledore for his protection and joined the Death Eaters instead, Draco would have probably been _running_ , with the inhabitants hanging on his every word. How things had changed.

 

It was a simple matter to slip in close on the heels of Millicent Bulstrode before she had a chance to close the door. He swiftly ensconced himself in a corner.

 

“Millie,” Pansy greeted her with a nod. “How was your holiday?”

 

Millicent shrugged. “Nothing special. We go to the same place every year, so I pretty much just felt out of the loop for two months… But I get the sense that I interrupted something. What’s going on?”

 

Pansy’s face gave an irritated twitch. “We were just discussing the Blood Traitor.”

 

Draco caught his breath.

 

“Weasley?” Millicent questioned with a puzzled frown.

 

Pansy snorted. “As if that low-life scum would ever be worthy of conversation. No, this traitor revealed his colours far more recently and he comes from within our own house.”

 

There were grumbles of dissent around the room; Millicent’s mouth parted slightly in an unconscious gape of surprise.

 

“So it’s true, then?” she asked. “I heard rumours going up and down the train, but I couldn’t believe it – Draco Malfoy has really turned?”

 

“Unless he is on an undercover mission to kill Harry Potter that even the Dark Lord doesn’t know about, yes, it would appear that Draco has turned,” Pansy answered tersely.

 

 _So is that what it would take to be accepted back?_ Draco wondered. _Would I have to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord to be killed, or kill him myself?_ It was true that he was in a better position to aid the Dark Lord in his plans than he would have been if he had simply joined the Death Eaters outright. Potter trusted him now, believed him to be a friend and a protector. Betraying him would be almost laughably easy.

 

“What happened?” Millicent demanded. “Last I saw of Draco he was raring to take his father’s place and get bloody revenge on Potter.”

 

“Narcissa said that he ran away from home without warning or reason a few days into the holidays,” Pansy explained.

 

“Probably heard that the Dark Mark ritual hurt something fierce and was too chicken to go through with it,” Goyle grunted, and Crabbe snickered his agreement.

 

“Draco always has been a bit of a wimp,” Blaise drawled. Draco had to fight down the sudden urge to deck him for his insolence. “I doubt he would have had the stomach for the tasks the Dark Lord would have given him anyway.”

 

“Just because he ran doesn’t mean he is a traitor, though, right?” Millicent said. “A coward, certainly, but maybe he just wasn’t ready yet. What makes you think he actually turned? Has he said as much?”

 

“Actions speak louder,” Pansy pointed out. “Draco showed up a few weeks after he vanished… in Little Whinging.”

 

“I haven’t heard of it.”

 

“That is because it isn’t a wizarding town, it is a Muggle suburb,” Pansy stated with clear disgust. Crabbe and Goyle echoed her with faked vomiting sounds.

 

“Draco was hiding in the Muggle world?” Millicent exclaimed. “How could he stoop so low?”

 

Draco’s nostrils flared. It had _not_ been his idea.

 

“Oh, that isn’t the worst of it,” Pansy assured her. “Guess who lives in Little Whinging. Guess whose house Draco was _staying_ in. I’ll give you a hint – his only claim to fame is being alive and having a hideous scar scrawled across his forehead.”

 

“You can’t… you don’t seriously mean _Harry Potter_ do you?”

 

Crabbe and Goyle resumed their gagging noises as Pansy nodded. “I know! I thought my father was kidding when he said that he saw Potter and Draco together, so he showed me his Pensieved memories. The two of them fought side by side against my father and the other Death Eaters. Side by _side_ , working together, like they were friends or something. It was disgusting! And when my father finally managed to get Potter with a trip jinx, Draco decided to act like he was some bloody Gryffindor and save Potter’s life!”

 

There were gasps of horror from around the room and Draco shrank back even though he knew they couldn’t see him. It was a matter of deepest shame for a Slytherin to be caught associating with Gryffindors, let alone to share in some of their attributes.

 

“And then, if that wasn’t enough,” Pansy continued, “Draco turned up at the house of the Blood Traitor Weasleys, and joined in battle in their defence. Apparently, if it had not been for his interference, Potter would be in the hands of the Dark Lord now and the war would be pretty much over.”

 

“Draco hates the Weasleys,” Millicent said. “And he _especially_ hates Potter; he has loathed that stuck up Gryffindor since the moment they met on the train in first year. None of this makes any sense!”

 

“Well I sincerely doubt the namby-pamby wizards that follow Dumbledore would use _Imperious_ on Draco – they wouldn’t like to get their hands dirty that way. If he has been Polyjuiced, where is the original and who would go to all this bother to discredit him? No, it is Draco alright, acting of his own accord. And he shall not be forgiven.”

 

Pansy was glaring as she delivered this conclusion, but Crabbe snickered. “I think Malfoy is in for a bad year,” he drawled, cracking his knuckles and layering the word ‘bad’ with heavy emphasis.

 

Draco swallowed silently.

 

The others in the compartment laughed and the conversation moved on to other things. Draco began to feel stiff from staying in one position too long.

 

“I’m bored,” Goyle eventually announced.

 

Draco felt a stirring of unease. He remembered saying those same words himself, many times, and it had inevitably led to the three of them searching out some form of entertainment. Usually, picking on the younger students of other Houses or bugging Potter and his friends.

 

Crabbe grinned. “Me too. Let’s go do something.”

 

Draco had the unsettling suspicion that he knew which option they were going to choose today.

 

Crabbe and Goyle stood up, stretching out their huge muscles simultaneously before exiting the compartment. Draco followed them, trying to keep his movements as quiet as possible. He knew if he was found here, spying on members of his own House, he would be visiting Madam Pomfrey before the Great Feast had even started.

 

“Goyle,” Pansy called sharply and Draco froze, wide-eyed. “When will you ever learn to shut the door?”

 

He exhaled gently. It had annoyed him, too, in the past, but now he was grateful for it because it offered him an easy escape. Their gargantuan footsteps masked his, as well, which was most convenient.

 

They stalked down the corridor, Draco trailing behind them. Snippets of conversation came to him through doors that had been left open and occasionally he slowed down to listen.

 

“…cousin went missing a few weeks ago… whole family was freaking out, thinking she had been killed or captured… turned out she was just eloping with that toad Phil Tudson… my aunt and uncle were furious…”

 

“…mum’s obsessed with following… security advice in the Daily Prophet… so unreasonable…”

 

“…glad that they finally got rid of that idiot Fudge… not sure that Scrimgeour is much better… arrested Stan Shunpike…”

 

“…Aurors locked up another 26 Death Eaters… least someone is getting it right…”

 

“…hear that Melanie is dating Brad now?...such a bad match… bet it won’t last…”

 

“…my parents were seriously considering moving us to Switzerland… grandfather lives there… but magical education isn’t as good…”

 

“…really think that Harry Potter is the Chosen One?...”

 

“…apparently Draco Malfoy ran away from home…”

 

Hearing those words, Draco stopped outside the carriage and saw that it was filled with Ravenclaws. The news was spreading beyond the children of Death Eaters, as he had feared it would. It hadn’t taken very long at all.

 

Someone snorted. “Got sick of all his servants and riches, did he?”

 

“I heard he was running scared. After his father got caught at the Ministry, You-Know-Who was going to kill Draco in revenge.”

 

“Yeah, right. Draco Malfoy is like the poster boy for pureblood supremacy.”

 

“Pure-bloody arrogance you mean.”

 

A ripple of laughter.

 

“Serve him right if he _has_ got a death sentence hanging over his head, the bastard. He has always been lording it over us, thinking he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it because of who his father was. Not anymore though.”

 

“Well I, for one, am not going to put up with any more rubbish from him this year. One wrong word or move from Draco, and I will not be responsible for my actions.”

 

“Don’t do anything stupid. We’re Ravenclaws, remember, not Gryffindors.”

 

“I don’t care. I don’t! Death Eaters like Draco’s father killed my mum.”

 

A long pause. “Yeah, I know,” someone ventured quietly. “I’m sorry, man.”

 

“They _killed_ her. They just killed her. She hadn’t even done anything. They murdered my mum! She’s dead because of them. Gone, forever. I hate them. I _hate_ them! I- I…”

 

There was the sound of choked back sobs and Draco began to feel distinctly awkward about eavesdropping. He didn’t even know the boy who had lost his mother, but his grief was all too obvious and it tugged at Draco’s own emotions. He couldn’t even imagine how he would feel if he were in the same position, but even the thought of losing her was unbearable.

 

Death Eaters had murdered this woman and torn apart this family, and it was just one cruel act among countless others. They were despicable.

 

Draco realised anew that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. He didn’t want to be associated with them. He didn’t want to hang around their like-minded children and their supporters. He didn’t want people such as these Ravenclaws to look at him and his actions and consider him to be a part of their ilk. He wasn’t like them anymore. He refused to be.

 

Draco shored up his courage and determination and strode determinedly after Crabbe and Goyle. He knew what their intentions were and he knew now what his response was going to be. They weren’t going to like it.

 

ooOOoo

 

“…spent a whole month living in a tent in the middle of the Doxey Marshes – an entirely misleading name, of course, because everyone knows that Doxies despise the wetlands and can’t be found anywhere near them. The Marshes really should be named after the hundreds of Bogglemumphs that live there, instead… Not that anyone has ever seen one of course, but that’s why Dad and I were there looking for them…”

 

Harry let the words wash over him, only half listening as Luna described the latest creatures her father had been researching and writing about in The Quibbler. He doubted that they actually existed, but Luna was bubbling with excitement over them and he decided that her open-mindedness was a refreshing alternative to the cynicism of most people. After all, she might have no proof that Bogglemumphs were real, but no one had any proof that they _weren’t_ real either.

 

“…left out all sorts of different food for them, since we don’t know what they like to eat…”

 

He felt a smile tugging at his lips. When he had met Luna at the start of last year, she had given off an aura of distinct dottiness and his first inclination had been to avoid her in case it was infectious. He had not expected that she would become a friend of his, but he was glad she had.

 

“Did you see any masterwort shoots or bogweed while you were there?” Neville interjected when Luna paused for breath.  He was another person Harry had never expected to grow particularly close to, but had certainly proven his worth, mettle and loyal friendship last year.

 

“Why? Do they attract Bogglemumphs?”

 

“Uh, not that I know of, but they have plenty of other useful properties. Masterwort, for example-”

 

His words were cut off by an argument in the corridor that had come within earshot. “It _hurt_ , Hermione! The least you could do is explain why you did it!”

 

Ron stormed into the compartment and flung himself onto a seat, propping a foot up on his knee almost immediately and cradling it protectively with his hands.

 

Hermione followed him in more sedately, though her tight expression indicated that she, too, was annoyed. “I was preventing you from doing something stupid, Ronald, as usual! It seems to be a full time occupation!”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ron snapped.

 

“Come on, it was _obvious_ that any interference from us was only going to make the situation worse, but you were just going to blunder in anyway.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Big surprise there. I’m _talking_ about _Draco_.”

 

“What about him?” Harry asked, wondering if this went beyond a typical squabble between his two best friends.

 

“I was just going to say hi,” Ron protested. “Where’s the crime in that?”

 

Neville raised his eyebrows and Harry realised how peculiar that statement from Ron would sound to someone who hadn’t been privy to everything that had happened to them this summer. Harry hadn’t felt like sharing even the abridged version of his not-so-pleasant school break, so his response to their question of how his holidays were had been deliberately vague; Harry was content to listen to Neville and Luna share their stories instead.

 

“Didn’t you see how uncomfortable he was?” Hermione questioned. “Everything has become much more complicated for Draco now that we’re back at school; we can’t assume that he will want to continue being friends with us.”

 

Harry felt a jolt in his stomach.

 

“Friends?” Neville echoed disbelievingly.

 

“Why should where we are make any difference?”

 

“It is not so much the location as the people, Ron,” Hermione explained. “Think about it. Draco hasn’t been in contact with any of his Housemates all summer. At your house, or at Grimmauld Place, Draco was surrounded by Gryffindors. Getting along with us was the path of least resistance for him, so it was an easy choice. But now that we’re going back to Hogwarts, everything will be different. Draco sleeps in the Slytherin dorm. He eats at the Slytherin table. He attends all of his classes with the Slytherins. He is surrounded by them all the time and if you haven’t noticed already, the Slytherins don’t like us very much. We shouldn’t be surprised if Draco’s attitude towards us suddenly changes back to the way it used to be.”

 

“You think it was just an act?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual, as though it didn’t really matter to him either way… as though Malfoy wasn’t his lifeline and as though Harry wasn’t terrified that he would drown without him.

 

But Hermione saw straight through the façade, as she always did. Her voice was loaded with sympathy. “Oh Harry… I don’t think Draco was pretending to care about you. But peer pressure is a powerful thing. The Slytherins in the prefects’ carriage were deliberately ostracising him and that has got to be a very difficult thing to live with.”

 

It was. Harry knew that all too well from years of experience in primary school, the incident in first year at Hogwarts when losing 150 House points in one night had turned Gryffindor against them, the time everyone had though he was Slytherin’s heir terrorising the school because he spoke Parseltongue, the ‘Potter stinks’ campaign when he had become the fourth Triwizard Champion, and the beginning of last year when most people had either thought that he was insane or lying for attention. Yeah, he knew what it was like. He couldn’t blame Malfoy if he wanted to sever ties with them to save himself from that.

 

“Well, I guess I should have known that it wouldn’t last forever,” he said dully, staring down at his hands.

 

There were a few moments of silence, until a confused Neville spoke up. “Um, could someone please explain what is going on? Since when is Malfoy a friend of yours? Last time I checked, he and Harry were enemies.”

 

Harry didn’t say anything, so Ron took it upon himself to explain how Malfoy had refused to join the Death Eaters, sought protection from Dumbledore and wound up at Privet Drive. Correctly assuming that Harry didn’t want anyone else to know about the way he had been treated by the Dursleys, Ron focused on the story of Malfoy’s transformation.

 

“He saved your life, Harry?” an incredulous Neville asked once the tale was done.

 

“And my mum’s,” Ron affirmed. “Unbelievable, I know, but it’s true.”

 

“Wow. I never saw that one coming.”

 

Harry was startled out of his stupor when someone sat down beside him and soft, gentle hands covered his own. “Sometimes people surprise you,” Luna said. Harry looked up at her and somehow her smile set him at ease. “Don’t give up on Draco just yet.” She squeezed lightly and let go; somehow Harry’s usual negative reaction to physical contact never had time to kick in, although he did feel a strange, warm pressure in his chest. He was oblivious to the odd look Ron shot him, or Hermione’s contemplative expression as she glanced between him and Luna.

 

The conversation drifted onto other things. Ron not-so-subtly polished the Captain’s badge on his chest, leading Neville to exclaim excitedly over it, congratulate him fervently and ask him what his plans were for Quidditch that year. Luna mentioned that she might try out being a commentator for the matches, but she wasn’t sure it would be quite as interesting as the hunt for Bogglemumphs, which Hermione promptly scoffed at and resulted in a quibble between them about the existence of such creatures.

 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

 

Harry stiffened at the tone, even before his eyes flashed up to see who had invaded their compartment. Crabbe and Goyle wore smirks reminiscent of Dudley and his gang before a round of Harry-hunting. His mouth went dry and for a moment his mind spun into panic mode.

 

Reason swiftly reasserted itself. He had never been scared of those two bullies before and he didn’t intend to start now. To convince himself, he stood up and glared at them defiantly. It helped that a quick glance behind them revealed that Draco wasn’t with them, which Harry decided to take as a good sign.

 

“Are you sure it is safe for you two to be in here?” he challenged, infusing his voice with a bit more confidence than he felt. “Don’t you remember what happened to you last time?”

 

“Yeah, we do,” Crabbe growled. “And we’ve decided that it’s payback time.”

 

“If you try something, you’ll regret it,” Harry warned. He shook his sleeve in a slight movement, causing his wand to drop from its wrist holster covertly into his hand. The others in the compartment stood up to support him.

 

“I don’t think so,” Goyle retorted. “You see, we’ve learned a few tricks over the holidays…” Grinning, he and Crabbe whipped out their wands, levelling them at Harry.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Hermione snapped as five wands rose in response.

 

Crabbe’s lip curled into a snarl. “Too late, Mudblood.”

 

He and Goyle spoke simultaneously, “ _Cruc_ -”

 

That they would dare to use an Unforgivable on the Hogwarts Express momentarily stunned the defenders, but it didn’t matter; “PROTEGO!” Malfoy’s voice yelled, and as a powerful shield shot up before them he appeared out of thin air in a shimmer of silvery material. “That was a mistake,” he informed his former cronies.

 

They whirled on him. “Malfoy!”

 

“Your powers of observation never cease to astound me,” he drawled, surreptitiously slipping the Invisibility Cloak into a pocket of his robes.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Crabbe said sharply, but Goyle smiled cautiously.

 

“Come to join us, Malfoy? This is your chance to redeem yourself.”

 

Harry’s breath caught.

 

For a long moment, Malfoy gazed levelly at his House mates, twirling his wand in his fingers, his face showing no emotion.  Then his gaze shifted briefly to Harry, and when he looked back at them his face was set with determination.

 

“In their eyes, I already have,” he said. A fatalistic smirk twisted his lips. “I’m afraid I no longer care what you and the other Slytherins think of me.”

 

Harry felt a burst of relief and the tension in his friends relaxed at the knowledge that Malfoy was not about to turn traitor on them.

 

Goyle, however, gaped in shock at the firm pronouncement and Crabbe’s face grew thunderous.

 

“Wrong answer,” Crabbe snarled, making a sharp, slashing motion with his wand. “ _Diffindo_!”

 

Effortlessly, Malfoy deflected the attack. He retaliated with a slew of spells that soon drove Crabbe and Goyle screaming and cussing from the compartment.

 

Harry stuck his head out of the door to make sure they were actually leaving and saw that a host of other students had done the same to see what all the commotion was about. It didn’t take them long to catch sight of Harry and Malfoy standing next to each other and, like fuel being added to a fire, the noise level rose rapidly as visual evidence suddenly lent credence to the rumours that had been flying around.

 

“Now you’ve done it, Malfoy,” Harry commented, slipping back inside to escape the stares.

 

Malfoy shrugged, moving to join him and closing the door behind them. “They had it coming.”

 

Harry couldn’t argue with that. “You don’t mind being seen with us?”

 

“There is worse company I could keep,” he replied offhandedly. Harry could read the faint stress lines in his face that spoke of how tough the decision had been and of his fear of the consequences, but he also saw grim satisfaction.

 

Harry surveyed the group that surrounded him. At one point, Malfoy would have classed them as a Scar-head, a Mudblood, a Blood Traitor, a Squib and a loon. But he had just chosen this ragtag collection of individuals over purebloods he had been friends with for years, despite the fact that doing so would be the social equivalent of suicide within his House. Maybe, Harry thought, his mouth twitching into a smile, just maybe his trust in Malfoy had not been misplaced after all.

 

ooOOoo

 

The rest of the journey to Hogwarts was a truly strange experience for Draco. He had spent all holidays socialising with these people, but somehow, because that time had been spent in unfamiliar locations and he had been largely cut off from the rest of the world, it had felt almost surreal. Here, on the Hogwarts Express, it had suddenly become his new reality. He was actually, willingly, spending time with a bunch of Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw with no other Slytherins in sight… and he was enjoying himself.

 

Of course, there was a certain level of awkwardness at first. Draco had spent five years being nasty and insulting towards Longbottom – calling him a fat, useless lump and a brainless idiot were only a few of his transgressions against the other boy – and he had never been particularly kind to Lovegood either. In her characteristically odd and somewhat uncomfortable manner, though, Lovegood had stated cheerfully,

 

“This is awkward, isn’t it? After all, Draco has been simply horrid to most of us in the past, especially to you, Neville. But I think chasing off those two big brutes was his way of apologising and asking if we would like to be friends with him now. He never really meant any of it anyway; he was just speaking out of ignorance and trying to gain approval from his House. He’s sorry. Right, Draco?” She beamed at him.

 

A little bewildered, Draco had replied disingenuously, “Er, right. Yeah. Sorry, Longbottom.”

 

Longbottom accepted the apology with greater ease than Draco had expected and it was equally startling to notice how naturally conversation ran between them all afterwards. The friendly atmosphere was so genuine, lacking any of the politics and manoeuvring that had been a constant with the Slytherins. It was a pleasant, refreshing contrast. He couldn’t believe how much he had been missing in his relationships before now.

 

All too soon, the train ride came to an end. Students flooded out of their compartments, luggage and pets in tow, and onto the platform in the typical, chaotic rush. This year had one difference though; many students slowed or even stopped for a few moments outside the compartment where Potter, Draco and the others were sitting to gawk in through the windows.

 

Draco felt like squirming under their scrutiny, but his upbringing allowed him to maintain a cool exterior and pretend to ignore them. Potter was attempting to do the same, but apparently even years of experience as the Boy Who Lived in The Spotlight hadn’t managed to render him immune to the curious gazes of his peers. He shrank back in clear discomfort and stared down at his fidgeting hands.

 

“Harry, they’re not thinking anything bad about you this time, you know,” Granger told him.

 

“Yeah mate,” Ron chipped in, “they’re just wondering if you really are the Chosen One.”

 

 _And whether the stories about me are true,_ Draco thought.

 

“I guess,” Potter sighed, reluctantly getting to his feet and retrieving his trunk from the luggage stash. “We should probably get going before all the carriages are taken.”

 

They made it without too many incidents – aside from a burly fifth year Slytherin roughly shoving Draco out of his way, a bunch of giggling girls forcing Potter to walk through their midst so they could brush up against him, and Lavender Brown batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at Ron as he passed, causing him to miss a step. When they did get there, though, Draco stopped dead, Granger let out a squeak of surprise and Ron stared slack-jawed.

 

“What?” Potter asked, nonplussed.

 

Granger lifted a shaking finger to point to the sinister-looking creatures that were hitched up to the carriages. “Th-the-”

 

“Thestrals,” Lovegood filled in for her. “There’s no need to be frightened; they’re quite harmless. You rode on them last year, remember?”

 

“They look even creepier than I imagined!” Ron exclaimed.

 

Potter looked from the skeletal winged horses to his friends. “You guys can all see them now?”

 

“Yes,” Granger answered. “It must be because we saw… ah, because of what happened at the Department of Mysteries.”

 

A shadow passed over Potter’s face and he nodded sombrely. “And you?” he asked Draco.

 

A memory flashed before his mind’s eye: a Death Eater with Potter in his grasp twisting awkwardly to deflect the hex Draco had shot at him, losing his balance, tumbling down the stairwell, magic saving Potter but not his assailant, the sickening _crunch_ of his neck snapping, the sprawl of his broken body on the landing.

 

“The battle at the Burrow,” Draco replied simply.  He didn’t really want to talk about it. He had caused the man’s death, however unintentionally, but he had been protecting Potter and if he had to do it over again he would do the same. It wasn’t as though the man had been innocent.

 

Potter grimaced. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t make me give you the ‘It’s not your fault’ speech, Harry,” Granger mock-threatened.

 

“It’s a doozy, believe me, mate,” Ron said.

 

Potter smiled faintly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

 

They boarded the carriage and allowed the Thestrals to bear them to Hogwarts castle. Lovegood bade the eerie creatures farewell with scratches behind their ears and not long afterward the group walked into the Great Hall. Their entrance did not go unnoticed. What seemed like every eye in the room was on them as they passed through the huge double doors into the light of thousands of candles. Draco couldn’t help but notice that almost every Slytherin wore a hostile glare. Thankfully the students from other houses appeared merely curious or thoughtful, however some Gryffindors occasionally shot him a suspicious glance as though wondering if he had an ulterior motive for hanging out with their hero.

 

Apparently unaware of the attention, Lovegood skipped away happily to the Ravenclaw table.  Draco hesitated to split off from the group to join his own House, even though he knew that he didn’t have much of a choice.

 

“Is it a rule that students have to sit at their own House table, Hermione?” Potter asked.

 

“It isn’t written down anywhere,” she replied slowly, “but I think it is more of an unspoken rule… No one has ever broken it before, as far as I know.”

 

Draco could see that Potter was disappointed by her answer, probably for his sake. Draco plastered a false smile on his face. “That’s okay. I will see you later.”

 

He strode away from them, trying to slip back into the gait of the proud, pompous, self-confident person he had always portrayed to the world. He made for the nearest empty space on a bench, but as he approached the gap was mysteriously filled in. Not skipping a beat, he headed down the table to the next space, but the students there, too, shifted to block him. Blaise Zabini actually laughed in his face and pushed him aside to claim the seat next to Crabbe and Goyle, and Pansy’s glared daggers prevented him from even attempting to sit near her. It took all of his concentration to keep his ears from burning red with humiliation.

 

Eventually he was able to take a spot right at the front of the Slytherin table beside the empty spaces that would be filled in by first year students once they were Sorted. He had never sat so close to the teachers before and hated how uncomfortable it made him feel. But there was nothing he could do about it. He had made his choice and this was just one of the consequences. Worse would come, he was sure.

 

He sat in a numb haze as Dumbledore greeted the school body and the Sorting Hat began its song, although he did absently pick up on how the Hat once again emphasised the need for unity within Hogwarts and wryly thought that trying for it wasn’t doing him many favours at the moment. He used to pay attention to the new additions made to Slytherin – determining whether they came from pure enough backgrounds to deserve the honour – but he found he didn’t care much anymore. He kept to himself and ate woodenly, no hungrier now than he had been that morning back at Grimmauld Place. His gaze wandered over to the Gryffindor table frequently and for the first time in his life he wished that he had been Sorted differently.

  
Dumbledore’s start-of-term speech was largely a blur of nonsensical sounds. Draco only heard a few random snippets and none of it really sank in except for the fact that Nymphadora Tonks was indeed announced as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; the news drew cheers from Potter and his friends at the Gryffindor table and scowls from Crabbe and Goyle.

 

“Let us therefore say goodnight,” Dumbledore concluded. “Pip pip!”

 

Draco sighed, ran his fingers back through his hair and pushed the bench back to stand up.

 

“I think what you’re doing is very brave and noble,” a voice said, close to his ear.

 

Startled, he looked around and caught a brief smile from a pretty witch – Astoria Greengrass, he thought her name was – but before he could respond she swiftly disappeared into the throngs of students heading out of the Hall.

 

Draco felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe he wasn’t hated by all of the Slytherins after all; it was just that the children of Death Eaters and pureblood fanatics held the balance of power and a sensible Slytherin would not oppose them outright even if they did disagree with them.

 

He knew he was in the right. He could handle this.

 

Nevertheless, he hurried to the dungeons, taking a few short cuts he knew to make sure that he arrived first, gave the password and headed straight for his dorm. He noticed that the school books he had ordered were stacked neatly on top of his trunk; he locked them safely inside and added an extra spell to keep them safe from potential vandals. He changed quickly into his bottle-green pyjamas, drew the curtains tightly around his bed and cast powerful wards that would ensure his sleep was undisturbed.

 

Nerves woke him early the next morning and he slipped out before any of his roommates woke up.

 

Unfortunately, he knew that avoidance wouldn’t work forever.

 

ooOOoo


	29. Adversity

 

_A dark storm raged overhead. Far below, waves crashed violently against the cliff face. Rain pelted their faces. Wind howled._

_Harry couldn’t make out the words that were said, but he could read the intent of his actions as the large man stalked, veins pulsing, fists clenched, toward the blonde-haired figure tied to a nearby tree. Terror-stricken grey eyes watched his advance, arms tugged frantically, uselessly at their bonds._

_Harry was unable to move, as though the ice-cold rain had chilled him to the bone and frozen him in place, rendering him a helpless spectator._

_A yell ripped through the gale, harsh and accusing, angry and biting. “Freak!”_

_The name had broken him once, but this time the invisible chains that held him back were broken instead._

_“No!”_

_He lurched forward._

_“I won’t let you hurt him!”_

_He seized the arm bearing down on the innocent and wrenched it away, spinning the assailant around to face him._

_But the larger man laughed cruelly, as he used the momentum of the spin to turn it around on him. He found his own arm gripped by two beefy hands, and as they whirled his feet lost contact with the ground. He wriggled wildly, but could not regain what had been lost._

_Then the vice-like band of pressure around his arm suddenly vanished as he was flung out into the open sky._

_The ground beneath him dropped sharply away. Gravity reclaimed him and he began to plummet toward the sea, but the tide drew back, leaving bare slabs of rock to greet him._

_“This is what you get for daring to defy me!” a voice called out gleefully._

_Hard, unforgiving stone rushed up to meet his rapid descent –_

_And his skull exploded with pain as he slammed into it full force._

 

Harry bolted upright in his bed, awoken by agonised screams that he only realised were coming from his own mouth when his throat grew sore and his voice hoarse.

 

He bit down hard on his hand to silence himself, only belatedly remembering that he had set up Imperturbable Charms around his bed before going to sleep last night. The use of magic was legal again now that he was back at Hogwarts, so he didn’t have to fear that he had inadvertently disturbed the sleep of anyone else. His roommates would be glad.

 

Malfoy wouldn’t be, though. He got angry whenever Harry tried to stay silent during a nightmare. He said he preferred to lose a few hours of sleep than to let Harry suffer through his nightmares alone.

 

But Malfoy wasn’t here with him anymore. He was in his own dorm.

 

Aware that he was still hyperventilating, Harry tried to remember what Malfoy would say in these situations.

 

_“Focus on your breathing, Harry. In and out. Let your mind clear until all you know is that steady rhythm of air moving through your lungs. In and out.”_

 

In and out.

 

His racing pulse gradually began to slow as his breathing eased and his mind and body calmed.

 

He sighed, knowing that getting back to sleep would be impossible now. He fumbled for his glasses and his wand, casting _Tempus_ to find out what time it was.

 

To his surprise and relief, the glowing numbers inscribed in the air told him that it was 6:03am. He had managed to sleep through most of the night and it was close enough to a decent hour in the morning for him to get up and prepare for the day ahead.

 

Harry slipped out quietly and availed himself of the showers. He soaked under the warm spray for longer than he usually would, enjoying the fact that today no one was going to pressure him to hurry up and finish because they were all asleep.

 

The castle was still and quiet when he finally ventured out into the halls. Even the portraits slumbered. In peaceful solitude Harry reacquainted himself with his home, retracing familiar steps, wandering down familiar corridors, trailing his fingers along the smooth stone walls and the intricately woven tapestries. The magic of Hogwarts seemed to hum contentedly under his touch, welcoming him back to the place where he belonged.

 

His aimless rambling finally led him to the Great Hall and he became aware of a strange sensation in his stomach, realising a few moments later that it was grumbling with hunger. It was something he hadn’t felt since the beginning of the summer holidays. Living at the Burrow and at Grimmauld Place he had slowly built up his capacity to eat more than just a nibble at each meal, but if left to his own devices he could have easily forgotten the need for food. At long last, though, it seemed his body was finally returning to normal. He smiled a little. That was one step toward putting the Dursleys behind him.

 

Unlike the rest of the castle, Harry discovered that the Great Hall wasn’t deserted. One other student was already there, sitting at the far end of the Slytherin table with a single plate in front of them. Closer inspection revealed platinum blonde hair…

 

“Malfoy!” Harry called in greeting, giving a small wave as he approached.

 

Malfoy started in surprise, but relaxed when he turned and caught sight of him. “Oh. Morning, Potter.”

 

“Very early morning,” Harry observed. “You’re not usually up this early, are you?”

 

Malfoy shrugged. “Apparently my sleeping habits have changed somewhat.”

 

Harry felt a pang of guilt, thinking that he had to be the reason, but Malfoy cut him off before he could even start to apologise.

 

“It’s great actually; it means I get to catch the sunrise more often.”

 

“And get first pickings at breakfast, I see,” Harry said, eying the plateful of bacon, eggs and toast. “Where’s mine? I’m hungry!”

 

No sooner had the words left his mouth than there was a _pop_ behind him and an excited voice said, “Master Harry Potter sir! How good it is to be seeing you!”

 

“Hi Dobby,” Harry greeted the elf fondly. “It’s good to see you too. How are you?”

 

Dobby beamed brightly, bouncing on the balls of feet clad in horribly clashing odd socks. “Master Harry Potter sir is wishing to know how Dobby is! Master Harry Potter sir is still so nice to Dobby! Dobby is good, sir, very good! Is Master Harry wanting breakfast?”

 

“Yes, ple-”

 

The house elf _pop_ ped away and reappeared moments later with a heavily laden tray bearing enough food for three teenage boys, not just one. “It is an honour to be serving you breakfast, Master Harry Potter sir. Dobby wouldn’t usually get to see Master Harry if he wasn’t awake so early.” His bat-like ears wilted slightly. “Dobby feared he wouldn’t ever get to see Master Harry.”

 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

 

“House elves is not to be seen, sir. They is meant to work without getting in students’ ways.”

 

 “You’re not in the way,” Harry assured him. “You can come and see me whenever you like… er, within reason. No midnight visits though, if you don’t mind.”

 

Dobby’s huge eyes grew wide. “Oh yes, thank you, Master Harry Potter sir!”

 

It was a nice feeling, to be able to make someone feel so happy so easily. He knew it was because Dobby had lived a very lonely life and he understood the extra value friendship held when it was a rare commodity. “No problem. Thanks for the meal, Dobby – although I don’t know if I will be able to eat it all!”

 

“That is no trouble, sir, no trouble,” Dobby replied cheerfully. “Dobby must be getting back to work, sir, but Dobby will be seeing you!” Another _pop_ punctuated his departure.

 

Malfoy was staring at the space the elf had just vacated. “He seems… so happy,” he said slowly, almost wonderingly.

 

Harry nodded. He remembered the last time that Dobby had come up in conversation, Harry had yelled at Malfoy for the way his family had treated the little elf. But Malfoy was a different person now. At least Harry hoped so, although he knew that long-held prejudices were hard to break. “He has a good life here.”

 

Malfoy looked at him. “And a good friend. You are a rare wizard, Harry Potter.”

 

He shrugged. “We’re not so different, Dobby and I.”

 

Confusion, and what might have been shame, flashed across Malfoy’s features. “All my life, I was taught that house elves were inferior beings, fit only to be our servants. But you treat him as an equal.”

 

“He has thoughts and emotions and dreams just like we do,” Harry pointed out. “And he has a tremendous amount of power; he just chooses not to use it most of the time. If they wanted to, though, and if they worked together, house elves could probably overpower us and rule this world. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was the reason why they were forced into servitude in the first place; because wizards were afraid of them. Just because they have a different role in society doesn’t mean their worth is any less than ours.”

 

Malfoy’s expression was thoughtful as he tried to wrap his brain around the concept. “Most people don’t think that way.”

 

Harry offered a wry laugh. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be normal.”

 

Malfoy smirked. “True. So are you going to eat that or what?” He snagged a plump sausage from Harry’s tray.

 

Glancing around to make sure that no one else was around to judge them, Harry sat down beside his friend, for now choosing to ignore the silver and green banner hanging over their heads.

 

Malfoy looked at him strangely for a moment, then shook his head and huffed with amusement. “Only you, Potter.”

 

Harry spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What can I say? I’ve never really been one for following the rules.”

 

Malfoy snorted. “No kidding. I seem to recall a certain young Gryffindor sneaking an illegal dragon through the halls of Hogwarts after curfew…”

 

“Hm, _I_ seem to recall a certain young Slytherin getting in trouble for being out of bed snooping around that very same night…” Harry retorted.

 

The playful banter went back and forth between them as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was surprisingly easy to make light of conflicts they’d had in the past that had felt so serious at the time but now just seemed childish and silly. Harry had great fun teasing Malfoy about the ‘Amazing Bouncing Ferret’ incident, which nearly started a food fight between them until Malfoy got him back with an impersonation of his antics during the Quidditch match he had spent being chased by a rogue bludger. The exaggerated expressions and postures he pulled had Harry laughing harder and more freely than he had in months. It felt good.

 

But time slipped away from them and other students began to enter the Hall. Potter was just beginning to reconsider the wisdom of his seating choice when Blaise Zabini caught sight of him and turned red in the face.

 

“What the hell are you doing in our territory, Potter?” Blaise barked, storming up to them.

 

“Eating breakfast,” Harry deadpanned.

 

Blaise sneered. “Think you’re funny, do you? You’re not welcome here, Potter.”

 

“Why? There’s plenty of space.” He knew that wasn’t what Blaise was referring to, but the morning had been pleasant up until this point and Harry wasn’t in the mood to have it ruined by some arrogant Slytherin who had issues with change.

 

 His face darkened. “How can I make this clear to you, Gryffindor? Get the hell out!”

 

“Or what? You’ll make me?” The moment the words left his mouth Harry regretted them; he wanted the other boy to see reason, not to provoke an attack – but it was too late.

 

“Damn straight,” Blaise snarled. He grabbed Harry’s shoulder and forcibly yanked him around, wrenching him off the bench and throwing him to the floor. Remnants of a nightmare flashed through his mind, but instinct guided his hands to strike first, jarring his arms but preserving the skull that had been damaged enough already. His body tensed, expecting blows to follow.

 

“Don’t you dare, Zabini.”

 

Harry scrambled to his feet and found Blaise and Malfoy facing off against each other, the former with a furious glare met by the latter’s coldly determined one. The moment stretched out, allowing more students to enter the Hall and teachers to start filtering in as well. Blaise wasn’t stupid enough to try anything more with so many witnesses around.

 

“Don’t let me catch him here again,” he said in a low voice. “You’re in hot enough water as it is.”

 

“Thanks for the warning,” Malfoy replied, an edge of sarcasm to his tone. His next words, however, were deadly serious. “But let me warn _you._ Touch Potter again and I will show no restraint in my retaliation, no matter who is watching.”

 

Blaise backed up a step, staring at Malfoy as though he were a stranger. “What happened to you, Malfoy?”

 

“I woke up,” he said bluntly. “I would advise you to do the same, before the war heats up and you discover too late that you are on the wrong side.”

 

Harry noticed Malfoy’s grey eyes flick to the other Slytherins who were watching the exchange and realised that although he was addressing Blaise directly, he was talking to them, too.

 

Blaise bristled. “I’m not on any ‘side’.”

 

“Don’t kid yourself. Impartiality has no place in this conflict. If you try to stick to the middle ground, you will get caught in the crossfire.”

 

“You think you are any safer? By standing with him,” he shot a disgusted glance at Harry, “you have placed yourself right in the target zone.”

 

“By standing with him, I have allied myself with the future victors of this war,” Malfoy retorted. He delivered the line with such surety that even Harry was tempted to believe him.

 

“You really think you can trust this scrawny brat with your future? You’re a fool, Draco. Blind faith is something I would expect from a Hufflepuff, not from a Slytherin. You should know better.”

 

“It isn’t blind faith. It’s strategy. You-Know-Who fears exactly two people in this world: Dumbledore and Potter. He is purported to be the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time and yet _he_ feels _threatened_ by _them_. For good reason. Just look at the history, Zabini; look at the facts. Potter has already defeated him once and thwarted his plans numerous times since, hindering his every move, blocking him at every turn. And now there is all this business about a ‘Chosen One’ which, be it truth or conjecture, has You-Know-Who running scared. From the looks of things, the odds are stacked highly in Potter’s favour and I for one am not stupid enough to bet against him.”

 

Harry swallowed, not sure if he was deserving of such a resounding endorsement. But he knew Malfoy wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. He didn’t know if that should encourage him or frighten him, but he found it did a little of both.

 

Blaise frowned, thoughtfully, but he still didn’t look convinced. “You’re risking a lot, Draco. You can hardly expect the rest of us to do the same.”

 

“It would be in your best interest.”

 

Blaise opened his mouth to argue, but Malfoy shook his head. “Just… think on it, Blaise. You don’t have to decide right now, though the time is fast approaching when you _will_ have to choose.  But in the meantime, you should be clear on one thing. I will not allow you, or anyone else, to bring Potter harm. Tread carefully.”

 

With those final words Malfoy strode away and Harry followed him. He noticed how the Slytherins parted for them; some almost against their will, others with what appeared to be grudging respect. Harry didn’t understand all of the undercurrents and politics that were going on, but he did see one thing: Malfoy had always been an influential member of his House and though his position had been dealt a serious blow the day before, it was clear that he was intent on making a comeback.   


Harry wondered if he would be successful. Without even consciously realising it before, Harry had always considered the students of Slytherin a lost cause, automatically assuming they would follow a darker path simply because they had been Sorted into the same house that Voldemort and other Dark wizards had belonged to in their youth. But Slytherin didn’t hold exclusive rights on evil – it had been a Gryffindor who had betrayed Harry’s parents, after all – and in fact some of its members had ultimately proven themselves to be good – Regulus Black, in turning against Voldemort, Snape, if Dumbledore was to be believed about his true allegiance, and Malfoy.

 

Harry remembered looking at Malfoy last year, with the words of the Sorting Hat’s song still fresh in his memory, and thinking _‘It wants all of the houses to be friends? Fat chance.’_ Yet here they were. And if Malfoy could change, maybe he could convince others from his House to change, too. If he actually managed it, if Slytherins really began to turn, if Hogwarts truly did unite as one…. The implications were staggering.

 

“Harry!” Hermione called, breaking him out of his thoughts. She was waving a hand in the air to catch his attention, though it wasn’t necessary; her bushy hair and Ron’s trademark red were not hard to pick out in a crowd. “There you are! We were worried!”

 

“Yeah mate, don’t just vanish like that,” Ron added once Harry and Malfoy had reached them. “We had no idea where you’d gone.”

 

“Sorry.” He was touched that they, too, wanted to protect him, but it was also a little overwhelming. It was probably unfair to think so, but sometimes it felt like he had bodyguards instead of friends. “But you know… we’re back at Hogwarts now. It’s not like I’m going to be set upon by Death Eaters if I leave Gryffindor Tower by myself to wander around for a bit.”

 

“Harry, you can’t just assume that you’re safe because you’re at school,” Hermione said. “Remember Quirrell, and the Basilisk and-”

 

“I remember, Hermione,” he interrupted, annoyed. Did _she_ remember that he had faced all of those threats pretty much single-handedly? He could take care of himself; she didn’t have to mother-hen him all the time-

 

“I think what Potter means is that he is entitled to a bit of space,” Malfoy cut in before Harry could blurt aloud what he was thinking and later regret blowing up at his friends. “And that he didn’t intend to give you cause for concern.”

 

Just as quickly as it had arisen the tension diffused.

 

“Have you two had the chance to get your timetables from your Head of House yet?” Hermione asked.

 

“Mine is _sweet_ ,” Ron told them happily. “I have so much free time…”

 

“That time is for studying,” Hermione admonished him sternly.

 

“We’re N.E.W.T students now,” Malfoy added. “The professors will be piling on the homework from day one, and that’s not even counting all the revision we will have to do for tests and exams…”

 

“Precisely, Ronald.” Hermione sounded a little bit too pleased at the prospect and Ron groaned.

 

“Harry, why do I get the feeling that we’re going to have _two_ crazy academics hounding us this year instead of just one?”

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, but Hermione didn’t take offence; she just smiled almost evilly and Harry suspected she was glad to finally have back up. It was probably a good thing, because when Harry and Ron were left to their own devices they tended not to get much work done.

 

Professor McGonagall approached them, then, and Malfoy excused himself to go talk to Snape about his own timetable.

 

“I have approved all of your subject selections, Mr Potter,” McGonagall told him, “but I noticed that without an ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L result you are unable to continue with Potions under Professor Snape. I’m afraid that Potions is a vital requirement for entrance into Auror training, so you may have to ask Professor Snape for special consideration, or else look into getting tutoring-”

 

There was no way that Harry was going to ask Snape for a favour, especially since he had never enjoyed the class in the first place. “Actually, Professor, it’s okay. I’ve changed my mind about what I want to do after school.”

 

McGonagall’s nostrils flared. “You can’t give up on your dream because of one set back, Mr Potter. I swore last year to help you become an Auror and I intend to keep my word.”

 

“No, I mean, I appreciate that Professor, but once the war has ended – and it will end,” a burst of passion entered his voice, “I don’t really think I will want to be a Dark Wizard Catcher for the rest of my life.” He shrugged a little and her expression softened.

 

“What else did you have in mind?”

 

“Teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts maybe? That subject seems to be one of the few things I’m good at and I had some experience with teaching other students in the DA last year…”

 

“Hm.” She eyed him critically. “Teaching is not a walk in the park, Mr Potter. A Professor must excel in their field and be made of stern enough material to be able to deal with any situation and any student they encounter. The future of each pupil is largely dependent on the quality of the education they receive and that is a tremendous responsibility to bear. It is not a field to be entered into lightly.”

 

Harry deflated. She didn’t think he was cut out for it?

 

“However, if you are willing to commit to it wholeheartedly, teaching is a very rewarding career. Apply yourself and I think you could do well, Mr Potter.”

 

He relaxed into a relieved smile. “Thanks, Professor.”

 

“Well, if you are not taking Potions this year, you have an empty time slot in your timetable. May I recommend Care of Magical Creatures? The content covered in N.E.W.T level classes includes magical beasts classified under the XXXXX category, which will compliment your DADA knowledge nicely.”

 

Harry remembered that Horcruxes could be destroyed by dark creatures and he also recalled the numerous occasions he had come up against such beasts as dragons, Acromantulas and Basilisks and barely escaped with his life. Learning more about them could definitely be valuable.

 

“Alright,” he answered.

 

“Excellent. Hagrid will be pleased to be teaching his favourite student again this year. Mr Weasley, you can join Mr Potter.”

 

“But that will cut into my free time-”

 

McGonagall frowned down her nose at him and Ron fell silent. She held her hand out expectantly, palm up, and Ron sighed but obediently handed over his timetable to be altered.

 

McGonagall then tapped her wand on a blank sheet of parchment for Harry; when she handed it to him the details of his timetable for the year were laid out on it.

 

“Same as mine,” Ron said, peering over his shoulder as McGonagall left to talk to another student. “We have a free period first up today; excellent!”

 

“You should use that time to go to the library and look in the Restricted Section for any more information on Horcruxes,” Hermione suggested. Ron scowled at her, but Harry conceded that it was a good idea. He also wanted to find out more about Rowena Ravenclaw, and if anywhere was to have a detailed account of her life surely it would be the library of the school she had co-founded.

 

Unfortunately, even when he worked out what, if any, Ravenclaw artefact had been appropriated by Voldemort to be used as a Horcrux, he would still be no closer to finding out where it was hidden. He hoped the flash of inspiration he needed would come sooner rather than later, but puzzling out the warped logic that dictated the actions of his enemy was no simple task. He was grateful that he at least had his friends to help him.

 

ooOOoo

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus noticed Draco Malfoy heading his way.

 

In fact, he had been keeping tabs on the boy from the moment he entered the Hall and saw him sitting at the Slytherin table next to none other than Harry Potter. Unsurprisingly, events had escalated rather quickly once other students had begun to arrive and for a moment it had seemed Malfoy and Zabini were on the verge of coming to blows, although in the true nature of Slytherins it had turned to verbal sparring instead. Even from the careful distance Severus maintained so as not to look like he was paying attention, he could clearly see that Malfoy’s posture was at once defensive and threatening. Apparently the protectiveness Malfoy had uncharacteristically shown over Potter that day when Severus had bumped (all too literally) into them at Hogwarts was not an isolated incident after all. 

 

Dumbledore, curse him and his twinkling eyes, had been right. Impossibly, Malfoy spending the summer with Potter had somehow changed their relationship from bitter rivalry to… mutual friendship? Severus could not believe it, and yet the truth was staring him in the face. They weren’t even being secretive or covert about it; their friendship was out there for everyone to see. Did Malfoy realise what a dangerous game he was playing? He had to – he was a Slytherin, after all – but if his ability to stand up to his peers just then was anything to go by, their disapproval and the precarious position it left him in did not cow him.

 

As unexpected as this turn of events was, Severus discovered he was proud of the boy. Unfortunately, he could not afford to let that pride show. They had both made the difficult decision to break from the Dark Lord and could potentially feel a sense of camaraderie in that, but there the similarity between their situations ended. The Slytherins all knew about Malfoy’s betrayal, which granted him the freedom to be open about his new allegiance, but Snape was a spy and his very life depended on façades and secrecy. In all likelihood Malfoy would need his support, not just as his Head of House but as someone who knew what he was going through, but Severus couldn’t give it to him. For the sake of appearances, Malfoy was now just as much his enemy as Potter was supposed to be. If any Death Eater children caught wind of anything else, it would get back to their parents and the Dark Lord by extension faster than he could plead loyalty. The risk was too high.

 

“Professor Snape,” Malfoy greeted him.

 

Severus turned with an air of having only just noticed him and allowed the faintest flash of distaste to cross his features, just in case anyone was watching, before adopting a neutral expression. “Mr Malfoy.”

 

Remarkably quick on the uptake, Malfoy’s eyes flicked briefly to the side in acknowledgement of potential witnesses, then he pulled on a face of mild distrust and suspicion as he returned his gaze to his Head of House. “I was told to collect my timetable from you.”

 

Severus nodded curtly and pulled out a sheaf of parchment which, with a tap of his wand, became Malfoy’s class schedule. “I should inform you that I will be unable to offer you advanced tutoring this year,” he said as he handed it over. He deliberately left out the qualification of ‘in Potions’ with the hope that the young Slytherin would read the underlying meaning of his words.

 

“I wasn’t expecting any, sir. You have many demands on your time.”

 

Severus offered a faint nod, satisfied that his message had been received. Their interactions would necessarily be limited to the Potions classroom from now on.

 

“I was appreciative of your careers advice and the arrangements you made,” Malfoy continued cautiously, with a slight pause before the word ‘careers’. Severus understood that he was actually referring to the day at the Manor when Severus had advised him to break from the Dark Lord before it was too late, as well as the part he had played in arranging protection for him once he had made that choice.

 

“Ultimately, the decision was yours,” Severus said. “I believe the - job is right for you, but it will take determination, commitment and hard work to - achieve the grades you need.”

 

Draco’s back straightened and his expression hardened. “I am aware of that, sir.”

 

Yes, the boy knew this year would not be easy, but it seemed he intended to stand by Potter’s side regardless. “Good.”

 

Severus hated to say the next part, but he knew it was necessary. “Now, Mr Malfoy, I saw the altercation you started earlier-” Draco appeared thrown by the change of topic for a moment, but he quickly realised that he had been unjustly accused and his eyes flashed with fury. He opened his mouth to protest but Snape spoke over him, “-and I must remind you that such conduct is unacceptable for a member of my House. I am very disappointed in you; I expected better from someone who _claims_ to be a Slytherin. If it happens again, you will receive detention.”

 

“I didn’t start anything, _sir,_ ” Draco retorted hotly. “ _Zabini_ attacked Potter!”

 

“That’s not what I saw,” Snape said silkily. “Potter broke the rules and deliberately goaded Mr Zabini. In fact… you can inform him that he has lost 10 points for Gryffindor.” He forced a slight smile onto his features, despite the uncomfortable squirm in his gut at the shock and disbelief written all over Draco’s face. Snape’s blatant favouritism towards Slytherin students and tendency to turn a blind eye to their misbehaviour was hardly anything new, but Draco would never have expected to have it work against him. Severus, unfortunately, had no other choice. His students had rejected Draco and Potter; he could do no less. “My, my, and classes haven’t even begun yet…” He turned with a dramatic flair of black robes and strode away, ignoring the feeling of eyes boring into his back.

 

 _I’m sorry, Draco,_ he thought. _But this is the way it has to be._

“Was that really necessary, my boy?” Dumbledore asked quietly, leaning over to him when Severus took his seat at the staff table.

 

Severus sat stiffly and returned a cold stare to Dumbledore’s somewhat sad and disappointed gaze. “I do not tolerate troublemakers in my House.”

 

“But Severus, I thought that you could perhaps-”

 

“Out of the question,” Severus snapped, dropping his voice lower to add, “and you know full well why. You cannot have it both ways.” After all, Dumbledore was the one who so valued Snape’s position as a spy. Even if he wanted to reach out to Draco, he could not jeopardise the mission for the sake of one child.

 

Dumbledore frowned, but he returned to his glass of pumpkin juice without another word, unable to argue.

 

Severus looked out over the Great Hall and unconsciously sought out that head of blonde hair again, despite his internal protestations that Draco’s wellbeing was no longer his concern.

 

There. Draco was with the Gryffindor trio, smirking with amusement at the ridiculous and thoroughly unsanitary antics Weasley was getting up to with his food while Granger displayed half-hearted disapproval and Potter laughed.

 

Draco would be alright, Severus decided. Unlike Severus himself in his own youth, Draco had friends around him. And that could make all the difference.

 

ooOOoo


	30. Professors

 

Harry and his friends approached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom with no small degree of curiosity. They’d had a different teacher for this subject every year of their magical education so far, with numerous and varied results. This was the first time they actually knew the person who would be teaching them.

 

Professor Tonks.

 

The news had taken Harry by surprise, but it pleased him immensely. He didn’t know what she would be like as a teacher, but he did know that she was friendly, funny and earnest, not to mention an excellent Auror. He had seen her fight last year at the Department of Mysteries. She might be a bit clumsy in everyday situations, but there was no denying her skill and courage on the battlefield. Harry was sure that she would have plenty to teach them. He looked forward to learning from her.

 

“I’m still finding it hard to believe that our new professor has bright pink hair,” Malfoy commented as they waited in the corridor for the rest of the class.

 

“She might not,” Ron said.

 

Hermione giggled. “It could be purple today.”

 

“Or blue,” Harry said.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it green,” Hermione mused. “That would be interesting…”

 

“How about multi-coloured?” Ron suggested.

 

“Like this?” Tonks appeared in the doorway of the classroom and, with a brief twist of concentration on her face, her bright pink hair suddenly sprouted every colour of the rainbow. It looked as though someone had emptied a paint pallet on her head.

 

Harry grinned at her. “Brilliant.”

 

She laughed and shook her head, letting her hair settle back into the less obtrusive pink. “Wotcher, Harry.”

 

“Hi, _Professor_.”

 

“That’s going to take a while to get used to,” she said, wrinkling her nose – which transformed into a small button nose before changing back to its normal size and shape. “But it’s better than Nymphadora!” She shuddered affectedly.

 

“How come you didn’t tell us?” Hermione asked.

 

“I wanted to surprise you, which judging from your expressions last night I managed pretty well!”

 

“I’ll say,” Ron exclaimed. “I thought you were just here on security detail or something.”

 

She winked. “That, too. Dumbledore thought it would be a good idea to have an Auror on staff. This way, I can protect you guys and teach you to protect yourselves at the same time.”

 

“You don’t mind being stuck with us kids all year?” Harry asked her.

 

“Nah. I think it’s going to be fun. Besides, it means I can spend more time with Remus-” She blushed and stammered, “Uh, I mean, well it’s just, he’s going to help me out with lesson planning and that sort of thing, only because Dumbledore asked him to of course…”

 

“Of course,” Hermione echoed, but she wore a small, knowing smile.

 

 _Remus and Tonks?_ Harry wondered. It seemed an unlikely match, but the more he thought about it the more he approved. He was sure that his father wouldn’t have wanted one of his closest friends to be lonely and Tonks’ bubbly nature would be a nice complement to Lupin’s seriousness.

 

“So what are you planning to cover in the curriculum with us this year?” Hermione asked, changing the topic to divert from Tonks’ embarrassment.

 

Her eyes twinkled. “You’ll find out. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun and you should all get a lot out of it, too. Ah, here comes the rest of the class.”

 

Sure enough, the other sixth years that had progressed to N.E.W.T levels in this subject were beginning to turn up. There were quite a few of them and Harry was proud to note that many were DA members he had taught last year.

 

Tonks waited until they were all lined up quietly.

 

“Hey, you lot,” she greeted them cheerfully. “As you should know if you were listening at the Feast yesterday, I’m Professor Tonks, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You’re going to have to help me learn all of your names – though I know a few of you already.” She flashed a smile at Harry.

 

“Now, I know your timetable says we’ll be having classes in this room, but there is only so much you can learn when you are sitting behind a desk. My job is to help you develop your practical defence skills, and for that I think we need a learning space that is a little more creative. Don’t you?”

 

The students nodded eagerly. Last year Umbridge had forced them to spend every DADA class at their desks, silently copying from a boring old textbook. Even Hermione the booklover had chafed under this so-called ‘teaching’ style. This year was looking better already.

 

“Righto. Follow me then.” She led them off down the corridor. “A friend of mine had this idea for the teaching of Defence a while back, and I hope he doesn’t mind me stealing it.”

 

It soon became clear to Harry where she was headed, having travelled to this section of the castle many, many times before, and the increased murmuring of some of the students behind him suggested that they were coming to the same realisation.

 

“The Room of Requirement,” Tonks announced happily, waving her hand at the blank wall which began to transform into a large set of double doors. She looked to Harry. “Remus told me what you lot got up to last year… disobeying a teacher, breaking school rules… and preparing your peers to meet a very real, very dangerous threat. I’m proud of you. This year I intend to continue what you started and I hope I can count on your assistance.”

 

Harry nodded wordlessly, a little surprised but honoured at the same time.

 

“Come in then, all of you.”

 

She pushed open the doors.

 

The space that greeted them was certainly a far cry from a traditional classroom. It was also different to the DA Headquarters, but Harry could instantly see the advantages of the set up.

 

Laid out before them was, essentially, an obstacle course. The terrain varied from dirt to grass to sand to rocks to pavement, sloping and dipping gently in some places while dropping off sharply or veering high in others. Scattered throughout the area were trees, an assortment of magical plants, boulders, sections of walls, rubble, pillars, tunnels, ropes, netting and deep puddles of water.

 

“If you ever get into a fight with Dark wizards,” Tonks began once the initial excitement had died down, “the types of Dark magic you will face are as varied as this environment. In order to survive, you must be flexible and creative, and you must be able to use every weapon available to you. And when I say ‘weapon’, I don’t just mean your wand.  Does anyone have any ideas of what else could be considered a weapon?”

 

Hermione’s hand flew up and Tonks nodded to her. “Our minds. Our knowledge of spells, our ability to analyse a situation and respond to it.”

 

“Good, Hermione. Any others? Neville?”

 

He appeared startled that she remembered his name, swallowing nervously as he lowered his hand. “C-courage and determination.”

 

“Very true,” Tonks affirmed. “Fear is a natural response to danger but, if you let it paralyse you, you will be in even worse trouble. What else?”

 

“Allies,” Ron spoke up. “You have a better chance if you are working in a team than you do on your own.”

 

“Everything around you,” Harry contributed, remembering the shelves of prophecies they had smashed to aid their escape last year. “If you know what’s there and keep track of where you are, you can use the environment to your advantage.” He gestured to various parts of the obstacle course. “You can use a wall as a shield, you can hide in the trees, you can raise a dust cloud, you can use a boulder to cause a distraction…”

 

“All very good points. Something else you should all remember is that even though this subject is called ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts’, the things you learn in other classes can be used in Defence as well. Who can give me an example?”

 

Hermione’s hand shot up again. “Human Transfiguration.”

 

Tonks grinned. “One of my favourites. The ability to change,” she shrunk a bit, “your appearance,” her hair turned blonde and curly, “at will,” her eyes turned blue, “is very,” freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks, “valuable for,” her face became more rounded, “concealment,” her body became more plump, “and disguise.”

 

The result was that she looked like an entirely different person and the students all clapped.

 

Tonks smiled and morphed back to her usual appearance. “If an enemy is looking for you, it helps to look like someone else. What would be the benefit of using Human Transfiguration over, say, Polyjuice potion?”

 

Malfoy answered this time. “You don’t have to worry about mimicking all the personality traits of a real person or knowing all their memories, so you are less likely to be recognised as an imposter.”

 

“Exactly, Draco. What else have you guys learned in other subjects that you could use in a fight?”

 

“Charms,” Ron said. “Like that time I used Wingardium Leviosa to knock out a troll with his own club!”

 

“That was so _clever_ , Ron,” Lavender Brown piped up and Ron straightened, looking pleased with himself.

 

“We’ve learned in Herbology that some plants can become weapons with a bit of coaxing,” Neville added.

 

A few other students came up with suggestions that included weaponised potions, knocking aside spells like they were Bludgers using Beater skills, pre-made rune matrices that activate when an enemy steps on them, and enlisting the help of magical creatures.

 

“Good,” Tonks said. “I want you to keep all of these ideas in mind. We will be focusing on duelling skills this year and while we will be practicing defensive and offensive spells, jinxes and hexes in this class, remember that everything you learn at Hogwarts in any subject can be used to help and protect you in a dangerous situation.”

 

Harry nodded approvingly.

 

“Okay, I think we’ve done enough talking for now. Now, Professor Snape told me that you guys haven’t been taught to cast spells non-verbally yet, is that right?”

 

The students nodded.

 

“Well we can’t have that. What if you were hiding and didn’t want to give away your position?”

 

“Or what if you were hit with a Silencing spell in the middle of a fight?” Harry added, remembering how he’d had a hard job of fighting back at the Burrow once he couldn’t talk.

 

“Or what if you broke your nose and couldn’t talk properly?” Neville said, speaking from his experience at the Department of Mysteries.

 

“Or what if you wanted to make it harder for an enemy to counter your spell? They can’t use the right counter-jinx if they don’t know what jinx you used in the first place,” Hermione pointed out.

 

“There are lots of reasons why you may need or want to use non-verbal spells,” Tonks acknowledged. “It takes practice. The most important thing to remember is to _concentrate_. You have to focus all your attention on the spell you want to use. Keep the incantation firmly in your mind, picture the effect you want it to have and don’t let anything distract you until the spell is cast.

 

“Okay, get into pairs. Try disarming and shielding spells against each other for now.”

 

The students did as she said, spreading out in the vast open clearing that preceded the obstacle course. Harry figured she was showing the class what was in store for them in later lessons to get them excited, but it made sense to work on the basics first.

 

Harry partnered up with Malfoy, while Hermione and Ron worked together. It was useful having four of them now, Harry noticed, because before there had always been an odd one out when they had to split into pairs.

 

They decided Harry would try to disarm Malfoy first while he tried to shield himself. Harry was uncomfortably aware of eyes watching him, as though his DA members expected him to be able to master this straight away and show them how it was done.

 

“Just focus on the spell,” Malfoy advised him.

 

Harry nodded and brought his wand up. _Expelliarmus,_ he thought firmly. He tried to ignore Ron’s face turning purple in his effort to stop himself speaking aloud, and Seamus looking a bit constipated, and Neville pressing a hand tightly over his mouth, and someone else muttering under their breath, and the words of advice Tonks was giving to Ernie…

 

 _Expelliarmus!_ he reminded himself. _Expelliarmus._

 

This was supposed to be a spell he was good at. He had used it loads of times – even against Voldemort that night in the graveyard! This shouldn’t be so hard.

 

 _Focus,_ he snapped at himself. _Expelliarmus._

 

Still nothing happened.

 

He tried to picture Malfoy’s wand flying out of his hand. _Expelliarmus._

 

After a few, fruitless minutes they swapped roles, and it was Malfoy’s turn to look frustrated with his lack of progress.

 

“Something’s missing,” Harry stated. “Concentrating, picturing it in your head, ignoring distractions… But there has to be something else.”

 

“We’ve both used wordless magic before,” Malfoy pointed out.

 

It was true. Harry remembered the lock on his cupboard’s door bursting open without a word on his part. He wasn’t even holding his wand at the time and it hadn’t occurred to him to speak the word ‘Alohomora’ out loud. He had needed the door to open and it had. “Those were emergencies.”

 

Malfoy tilted his head thoughtfully, then suddenly whirled to face Hermione instead, bringing up his wand sharply, beginning the motion of a spell – she was looking the other way – she didn’t know to defend herself -

 

A flare of protectiveness shot through him and Harry flung out his wand arm, his mind supplying the incantation automatically – _Protego!_

 

The shield enveloped Hermione and expanded out violently, knocking back both Ron and Malfoy.  


“Hey!” Ron protested, clambering back to his feet. Hermione looked momentarily thrilled with herself, but then seemed to realise that the shield hadn’t come from her. She looked to Harry, who was still holding his wand out in her direction.

 

“Harry?” she asked, sounding confused.

 

“It worked,” Malfoy grinned. “You just needed the added incentive. A sense of urgency and necessity, to go along with the concentration and mental images.”

 

Hermione looked between them, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. Then turned to Ron with a determined look in her eye and tightly twirled her wand in the exact motion Harry had taught her last year.

 

Ron’s wand was ripped from his hand and clattered against the back wall.

 

Hermione smiled at them proudly. “I _needed_ to prove I could do it.”

 

Malfoy shrugged, a small smirk of amusement playing on his lips. “Whatever works.”

 

Harry thought about it and decided to imagine himself in a full-blown battle, where the safety of his friends and his own life rested on how well he could work soundless magic.

 

They resumed practicing, this time as a group of four. When Hermione cast at Harry, Malfoy effectively deflected it with a Shield charm. When Harry cast at Ron it was Hermione who deflected it. When Malfoy cast at Hermione, Ron deflected it, and when Ron cast at Harry, Malfoy deflected it. The wordless spells didn’t work every time, but they gradually improved, and successes became more frequent.

 

They weren’t the only ones. With the group of four proving the task wasn’t impossible, the other students gained confidence and more of them were able to cast their spells without saying a word.

 

When the lesson finished, the class was tired but on a whole rather pleased with how they had done.

 

“Great work everyone,” Tonks said. “Keep practicing and I’ll see you in here next class.”

 

The students filed out, the noise level elevating suddenly as they were able to speak at last. Harry and his friends hung back a bit.

 

“Brilliant lesson, Professor Tonks,” Harry told her.

 

She smiled. “Thanks! I think it went pretty well. You guys picked up wordless magic faster than I expected.”

 

“We had a good teacher,” Hermione said.

 

Tonks chuckled. “I didn’t do all that much, but I’ll take what I can get. See you guys around.”

 

“Bye, Professor.”

 

ooOOoo

 

“You’re a Centraliquist, aren’t you?”

 

Draco looked over at Granger in surprise. It was just the two of them walking to Potions class together, since this was one of the subjects they were taking that Potter and Weasley weren’t.

 

Draco had discovered during Ancient Runes that morning that he did not, in fact, need Potter around to be able to work companionably with Granger, which had led him to the strange realisation that maybe they weren’t just friends with each other through association. And Potter wasn’t all they had in common, either. They both had a drive to do well academically, though Draco’s primarily originated from the high expectations of his father while Granger’s seemed to come from natural genius and a passionate thirst for knowledge. The outcome was that, having moved on from viewing each other as rivals, when they partnered together for school work Draco and Granger were able to challenge each other, delve deeper into the coursework, learn more and achieve better results than they could have alone.

 

Sometimes, though, Granger’s zeal for research was still difficult for Draco to comprehend.

 

“Where did you hear that term?” he asked her.

 

“I read it in a book,” Granger replied, predictably. “The ability you used to save Harry and Mrs Weasley intrigues me. As soon as you told me about it I knew I had to find out more, but the Black family library didn’t have _anything_ on the topic, so I had to wait until we were back at Hogwarts.”

 

“We’ve only been back for one day,” he pointed out.

 

She shrugged. “I visited the library during lunchtime.”

 

Of course she did.

 

“I remember you referring to your ability as a form of ‘Sight’, so I based my research on that and came across a lot of information on Seers-” her lips thinned with displeasure, “but eventually I discovered that seeing the future is actually only one of _six_ forms of magical Sights, and Centraliquism is another.”

 

“Six?” Draco hadn’t known that. Most of what he knew about his power was what his father had told him and to be honest, Draco had felt that the way his father used his power was distasteful, so he hadn’t felt particularly inclined to find out any more.

 

 “Yes. There was a chapter on them in the book _Ancient and Dying Arts_. Apparently all six Sights used to be quite common in the wizarding population, but it is fairly rare these days for anyone to be born naturally to these powers, as you were to yours and Professor Trelawney-” she wrinkled her nose “-was to hers. The book said that these branches of magic can be learned to a certain extent if a powerful wizard is willing to devote much time, effort and concentration to their studies, but it takes many years and few have bothered.”

 

“What are the other four?” Draco asked curiously.

 

“They come in pairs. There are Seers, who can see into the future, and there are Praetors, who can see past events.”

 

“Past events?” Draco interrupted. “Everyone has memories – that hardly counts as a power.”

 

“A Praetor can see the past of other people as well as their own, in intricate, vivid detail. It was a Praetor of the 17th century called Edmund Bowell who invented the Pensieve and with it the art of withdrawing memories from the mind, because he wanted others to experience the same ‘enlightenment’ that he said he gained through his powers. His work also inspired the development of Legilimency.”

 

“When you put it like that…” Draco conceded. “What are the others?”

 

“You already know about Centraliquists, who can see the magical core of people; also described as the ability to see the _internal_ workings of magic. Externalists are, as the name suggests, those who can see the external workings and traces of magic. This includes the ability to discern different types of spells, even if they produce no visible light, recognise magical signatures to determine who cast a spell, and the ability to perceive purely magical creatures that do not interact much with the physical plane.”

 

For an odd moment, Draco thought of the Lovegoods and their fascination with creatures that did not exist… Did not exist on the _physical_ plane, perhaps? Was it possible that they believed what others didn’t because they were Externalists who could See what others couldn’t? Maybe they weren’t crazy after all – just misunderstood. He resolved to mention the possibility to Potter; he didn’t think Granger would agree with him on this one. He got the sense, though, that Potter might appreciate the chance to believe in his Ravenclaw friend.

 

“A pair of brothers who had these complementary powers – Libeus and Osmyn Goulding – researched the field extensively,” Granger continued, “and went on to write _The Theory of Magick_ , which forms the basis of all our theoretical knowledge about magic, where it comes from and how it works. It’s a _fascinating_ read-”

 

“And the other powers?” Draco prompted, suspecting that she could easily get side-tracked.

 

“A Veritian is someone who can See truth and lies.”

 

“Let me guess, Veritaserum was developed by a Veritian?”

 

Granger nodded. “Geoffrey Levett. At the age of 130 he wanted to retire peacefully, but the courts of the day did not want to lose his power to see true justice done. He tried to develop a potion that would grant the same power he had to the drinker, but all he came up with was the truth serum, which prevented the drinker from telling anything but the truth and compelled them to be open with their answers. Apparently the courts were happy enough with that.”

 

“And the last?”

 

“An Emotiér can See emotions within people, even those feelings that they are not even consciously aware of or want to hide.”

 

Draco nodded thoughtfully. By this stage, they had reached the dungeons for Potions class, so their conversation had to be cut short.

 

There were not many students who had advanced to N.E.W.T level in Potions, Draco noticed, counting only ten including himself and Granger. Of the other sixth year Slytherins, Pansy was there as well as Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini. Draco thought he could reasonably expect to be ignored by Nott – he tended to keep to himself most of the time – but he wasn’t sure how Zabini would be inclined to act toward him after their confrontation earlier. He had no doubt, at least, that Pansy hated him – even now she was glaring daggers in his direction and not-so-quietly muttering about how he was “sullying Slytherin’s reputation by associating with that filthy Mudblood”.

 

The door to the dungeons opened, bidden by Snape’s wand, and the students filed in to take their seats.

 

Snape stood at the front of the room, waiting until every rustle of movement had ceased.

 

“Of all the students in your year, you are the select few who achieved an Outstanding result for Potions,” he began. “As a result, you have been accepted into my N.E.W.T class. However, success in the past has no bearing on your ability to keep up with the advanced level of work I will be expecting from you this year. Until now, you have only been required to prepare ingredients and follow instructions accurately. Apparently,” he sneered, “some of your peers were unable to do even that much. You all have shown you can.

 

“But to be a true Potions master requires an _intimate_ knowledge of ingredients: their properties, their effects, the best ways to prepare them, what enhances or nullifies them, the results that can be expected when they are combined with something else, and how to identify them as individual components of a whole. It requires a detailed understanding of the laws and principles that guide the brewing of potions and their expert application in relevant situations. It requires intuition and daring, to experiment, to perfect a passable but flawed recipe, or to develop a potion that is new and effective.

 

“Developing your skills in this subject will not be simple, nor will it be easy. I expect you all to put in your best efforts. Whether that will be enough… We shall see.”

 

Snape set them the task of brewing the Draught of Living Death, expressing his doubts that anyone would be entirely successful. The students pulled out their books and retrieved the ingredients they would need from the cupboard, then set about following the instructions.

 

At first, their potions progressed the way they were supposed to. However, about the stage that Draco found himself trying unsuccessfully to cut up an uncooperative Sopophorous Bean, he began to think that Snape might have been trying to deliver a message earlier.

 

“Granger?” he asked quietly.

 

“Hm?” She looked a bit frazzled.

 

“Are you following the instructions to the letter?”

 

She glanced from her book to the cauldron, still stirring and frowning at the stubborn liquid. “Yes, of course I am. I always do.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

She shot him a glare. “Not – as well as I would like,” she admitted grudgingly. “But I know I’m not doing anything wrong!”

 

“I didn’t say that you were. But what was it Snape was saying before, about what it takes to be a Potions master? Something about simply following instructions not being enough anymore?”

 

She nodded slowly. “He said we need to show intuition and daring, to experiment, to perfect a passable but flawed recipe…” Her eyes widened, and she stared at him in shock. “You don’t think he wants us to go _against_ the instructions, do you?” The very idea seemed to horrify her.

 

He shrugged. “All I know is that _this,_ ” he glared at the bean, “isn’t working. There has to be a better way… and I think the Professor expects us to find it.”

 

Granger still looked hesitant and Draco knew it was because she put a lot of stock in books. Draco trusted them to an extent, but there came a point in time when you just had to think for yourself.

 

 _I need to extract juice from this bean,_ he thought. _And piercing it with a knife doesn’t seem to be getting the job done._ He thought about what else had juice in it. Fruit, like lemons, did. If you cut up a lemon, some of the juice would dribble out, but most would remain trapped within the flesh of the fruit. If, however, you _squeezed_ a lemon, far more juice could be extracted.

 

Draco picked up the bean and tried to squash it between his thumb and forefinger. He thought he felt it give a little, but he wasn’t strong enough, and besides, he wasn’t sure that he wanted the juice to end up all over his hands. He placed it back down on the chopping board. He needed something flat that he could apply downwards pressure to, compressing the bean between the two surfaces. He eyed the knife he had been using and turned it over to the flat of the blade.

 

He could sense eyes watching him intently and knew it was Snape, even though he remained on the other side of the room.

 

Draco rested the blade against the bean and pushed down. Juice squirted out liberally. Adding it to his potion, and watching as it turned the appropriate colour for this stage, Draco smiled.

 

“Give it a try, Granger,” he told her. “It might turn out better than you think.”

 

She frowned at him, but then started mumbling all the laws and principles that she knew under her breath. Draco didn’t catch most of it, but she slowed when she started talking about numbers. “Seven,” she said thoughtfully. “Seven is the most powerful number, woven into almost every form of magic. It’s too dangerous to change the balance of ingredients, but maybe if I adopt the Theory of Sevens into the rhythm of my stirring…”

 

She started counting. After her seventh stir, she paused for a beat, and then resumed. The potion shimmered for a moment, but otherwise there was no effect.

 

“Try going the other way,” Draco suggested.

 

“Have to be daring,” Granger muttered. She stirred seven times one way, then took a breath, and stirred the other way. The potion turned a lighter shade. Hopeful, she stirred again, but the potion darkened ominously and she hastily resumed stirring counter-clockwise. She eventually developed a rhythm, seven times one way, once the other way.

 

It was working. And unless Draco was mistaken, he could have sworn that there was the barest hint of a pleased smile on Snape’s face.

 

Nearing the end of the lesson, their potions weren’t perfect by any means, but out of the class Draco and Granger were the closest to the intended result. Draco allowed himself to feel proud of their efforts.

 

That was, until there was the sound of a faint _plunk_ in his potion, as though something had dropped into it. He leaned over the cauldron to check – and it blew up in his face.

 

He staggered back from the table, drenched in potion, gasping and spluttering, feeling a rush of darkness overwhelm his senses –

 

He thought he might have heard Snape shout a spell and felt some sort of liquid being forced down his throat. The darkness receded and Draco found himself lying on the floor, a glowering Snape standing over him.

 

“Idiocy and incompetence,” the professor snapped. “Clean up this mess at once.”

 

Granger helped him to his feet. “Are you okay?”

 

“Fine,” he responded, but anger was boiling in his veins. Pansy was sniggering loudly at the back of the classroom and Zabini was congratulating her as he joined in the laughter. Draco could easily guess what had happened. Pansy had sent an ingredient that didn’t belong sailing into his potion, to deliberately sabotage his efforts. He had done it himself to hapless Gryffindors numerous times over the years, but never had anyone dared to do it to him. Potions was a class he usually excelled in and always in the past he had produced results that earned an approving nod from Professor Snape. Now he felt humiliated and he couldn’t even retaliate because the bell had rung for the end of class.

 

Pansy smirked triumphantly at him as she pranced out of the classroom. He stood there, fists clenched, shaking with fury, but he knew he couldn’t do anything with Snape standing right there. Snape wasn’t on his side anymore; he had said as much that morning. The injustice of the whole situation made him want to scream… But also gave him an insight into how the other students must have felt when Snape had given him preferential treatment in previous years. It was a lesson he hadn’t wanted to learn.

 

Granger stayed back with him to help him clean up the botched potion; thankfully, they were permitted the use of magic, unlike in the detentions Snape tended to assign.

 

Feeling even more frustrated and bitter once the cleaning was done, Draco stalked towards the exit.

 

“Both of you receive an ‘O’ for today’s class,” Snape informed them quietly.

 

Draco whirled. “What?”

 

Snape didn’t say anything further, but Draco realised as they walked out that Snape must have noticed their efforts after all. Of course, Snape had known that the eventual failure of the potion hadn’t been his fault; he just couldn’t call Pansy out on her actions because her father was a Death Eater and anything Snape did that she didn’t like would be reported back to him.

 

And Draco had thought his own situation was precarious.

 

“I know it’s hard,” Granger said to him as they walked, “but you mustn’t let them get to you. A reaction is what they want, and I think you are better than that. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

 

Ruefully, Draco wondered how many times she had given similar advice to Potter and Weasley about _him._

 

He sighed. “The worst part is knowing that this won’t be an isolated incident. This is my life now.”

 

“You chose a hard road,” she observed.

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“Do you regret it?”

 

The answer was hard to give in light of the knowledge that they were only a single day into the school year. But he wasn’t going to back out. “No.”

 

ooOOoo


	31. Those From Venus

 

The rest of the week passed quickly for Harry. The teachers loaded on the homework and oddly enough he didn’t mind being immersed in it every night, always having his head stuck in one book or another. It meant that he didn’t have to think about anything else, which made it easier to ignore the whispers that followed him as he walked through the halls and forget the nightmares that continued to stalk him during the night.

 

Malfoy seemed to be using his studies for a similar purpose. Harry realised now why the blond had been so pensive about returning to Hogwarts; his friendship with Harry had turned all of the Slytherins against him and a few of them in particular were going out of their way to make Malfoy’s life miserable. He must have known it was going to happen, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Still, Malfoy maintained an air of dignity, even as cruel jokes were made at his expense, jeering taunts were called across classrooms to him, his school work was sabotaged, he was tripped up in the corridors and underhanded spells hit him when he was least expecting it. He tried not to let on how much it bothered him, but Harry could tell.

 

Unfortunately, Harry felt that there wasn’t much he and the others could do to help, inasmuch as they tried. They did take to hanging out in the library until curfew instead of the Gryffindor Common Room, though, so that Malfoy wouldn’t have to spend as much time alone in the unfriendly territory that the Slytherin dungeons had become. 

 

Also, to avoid a repeat of what had happened at breakfast on Monday, Harry managed to convince Malfoy to sit at the Gryffindor table for meals instead. The move caused some unrest among his Housemates at first, until Luna came and sat down with them as well, effectively throwing the whole idea of separate House tables out the window. Once students stopped paying attention to the banners hanging overhead, inter-house friendships, such as those that had developed during the DA meetings last year, suddenly flourished out in the open. But despite the potential benefits that this change could have for the school, it didn’t stop the campaign against Malfoy. In fact, the Slytherins seemed to loath him more than ever, choosing to remain stubbornly separate from the other Houses as though to further emphasise his rejection from their midst.

 

Harry wasn’t sure that avoiding the problem was the best idea, but it was the only one they had at the moment. Madam Pince eyed them suspiciously when they claimed their little corner of the library each afternoon, but since Hermione was her most frequent borrower, and as long as they stayed relatively quiet, she didn’t contest their presence there.

 

The only one who chafed under their new routine was Ron. He had never really been one for the books, and apparently Madam Pince frowned upon having Fanged Whizbees whizzing around her precious shelves. Harry could see a bright side, though – Ron was so sick of being cramped in a stuffy library all week that he was looking forward to Saturday with fervent enthusiasm, which effectively distracted him from feeling nervous about fulfilling his first job as Quidditch captain: tryouts.

 

For a time, at least.

 

“Harry, wake up!” Ron yelled, ripping open the curtains around his bed.

 

He didn’t have a heart attack, but it felt like a close thing as he jerked awake and instinctively slammed himself back against the wall, staring out at the invader with wild-eyed terror until a split second later he realised who it was.

 

“Ron,” he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

 

Ron didn’t seem to notice. Once Harry slid his glasses on he saw that there was a slightly crazed look in Ron’s eyes, too, but he suspected the cause was a little different to his.

 

“Tryouts – today – soon – Quidditch-” Ron gasped out, confirming Harry’s suspicion.

 

Harry groaned, wishing to reclaim the sleep that had evaded him most of the night already. “Ron, go back to bed. It’s barely 5am! Aren’t you the one who always says that these early morning hours don’t exist on the weekend?”

 

“We have to get ready! I’m not ready! You have to help me!”

 

He probably should have seen this coming, but he was tired. “Ron, you are captain for a reason. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

 

“Har- _ry_ ,” Ron whined, his voice indicating that he was swiftly reaching panic mode.

 

Harry sighed. “Okay, I’m awake. I’m getting up.”

 

“I want to be down at the pitch in 15 minutes!”

 

“Of course you do,” Harry muttered, dragging himself out from under the warm covers. Ron vanished from the room, apparently satisfied that Harry was going to be cooperative, so he reluctantly got up and changed into his Quidditch gear.

 

Ron beat him there and somehow managed to work himself up into a frenzy in the minute or two that it took Harry to join him.

 

“I can’t do this!” Ron exclaimed in dismay. “’This is going to be a disaster, why did I ever agree to this-”

 

“Ron,” Harry said sharply, catching his attention. “Do you or do you not like Quidditch?”

 

Ron stared at him as though he had grown two heads. “You know I do!”

 

“Do you enjoy _playing_ Quidditch?”

 

“Yes! I’ve loved playing it ever since mum let me ride my first broom. It’s _everything_!”

 

“Okay, well start acting like it.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The reason why you joined the team was because you are passionate about the game,” Harry reminded him. “If you don’t find it fun, there’s no point. It’s good to want to do well and to see your team win, but not if you let yourself stress so much that you forget the very reason you took to the skies in the first place. This isn’t supposed to be a torturous chore for you, Ron. This is supposed to be a way for you to share your love, enthusiasm and talent for Quidditch with other people.”

 

Ron gaped at him.

 

“So calm down,” Harry advised. He handed his Firebolt over to Ron, telling him to have a little fun before they got down to business. Ron accepted the broom with an almost reverent expression on his face; it was still the best racing broom on the market and unfortunately Ron’s family could not afford to buy him one. But Harry didn’t mind sharing his, especially when he got to see how much joy it gave his best friend.

 

Ron kicked off from the ground and Harry watched as he looped and soared through the sky, twisting, diving and rolling around the three goal hoops, knocking back imaginary Quaffles and pretending to accept the roaring approval of a crowd.

 

Harry smiled.

 

The Ron who landed next to him half an hour later was far more settled and his eyes were bright with excitement instead of clouded with fear.

 

“I can do this,” he told Harry.

 

“I know you can. So, Captain Weasley, when those eager Gryffindors come out here to try out for your team, what are you going to be looking for and how are you going to decide who makes the cut?”

 

They sat down in the stands with a large sheet of parchment spread out in front of them and spent the next hour sketching out a plan. Harry discovered that Ron had already thought a lot about this and he had come up with some great ideas. All Harry had to do was sporadically remind Ron that he would be brilliant and Ron took care of the rest.

 

By the time that the first few hopefuls started turning up at the pitch, Ron was prepared and determined. Harry thought that the fact that Hermione turned up in the stands to watch almost before everyone else, without even a book in hand to keep her entertained, and wished Ron good luck with a quick peck on his cheek also did wonders for his morale, even if he did look a little dazed for a few moments afterward.

 

She wasn’t the only one offering encouragement. Quite a few Gryffindors came over to Ron to slap him on the back, congratulate him on earning the position and tell him they thought he’d do well as long as he ‘kept his helmet on straight’.  Neville and Lavender Brown were the two most adamant supporters who weren’t actually trying out for the team, but even if the others were just trying to get into Ron’s good books to influence his selections, the important thing was that Ron was growing in self-confidence with every word.

 

“So it’s true,” a cold voice drawled. Harry turned to see that a built, blond seventh year boy had approached them and the disdainful sneer he wore made what could have been a handsome face appear rather ugly. “I thought it was a joke when I heard that _Weasley_ had been made captain. Who in their right mind would choose a Keeper who has barely blocked a single goal in his whole abysmal Quidditch career to be the _captain_ of the Gryffindor team? I rather thought we would finally be _rid_ of you this year and get in some real talent instead.” His chest puffed out. “Like me.”

 

Ron had turned red and seemed incapable of coherent speech, but Harry wasn’t about to let someone talk to his friend like that.

 

“I’m sorry, are we supposed to know who you are?” Harry asked, his tone as rude as he could make it.

 

“Cormac McLaggen,” the boy stated proudly, thrusting out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry eyed it, but deliberately left it hanging until McLaggen dropped it awkwardly back to his side.

 

“Well, McLaggen, if arrogance and insults could win a Quidditch match then you would be a shoe in,” Harry said scathingly. “Unfortunately for you, _Captain Weasley_ is looking for people with actual skill and a team spirit.”

 

“I have one hundred times the skill of that loser,” McLaggen snapped. “You need me.”

 

“We need people with the right attitude and temperament,” Harry disagreed. “Which you obviously lack.”

 

Ron finally found his voice. “Yeah, McLaggen. I don’t need your sort on _my_ team. Now get out of my way; I have tryouts to run.”

 

McLaggen scowled darkly and looked like he wanted to punch Ron square in the jaw, but Harry not-so-subtly let his wand drop into his hand and twitched it in unspoken warning.

 

McLaggen caught the motion, glared at him, and then turned sharply on his heels to storm off the pitch.

 

Ron was sweating and his hands shook with either nerves or anger – possibly both.

 

“Forget him,” Harry said. “There will always be some loser trying to tell you that you’re no good. What is important is what _you_ know and _you_ believe.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Now get out there, Ronald Weasley, and show us what you’ve got!”

 

Ron nodded, knuckles whitening around the whistle that Hermione had conjured for him. Then, after a deep breath, he brought it to his lips and blew. “Alright, everyone, listen up!”  


The tryouts ran smoothly. Harry regained his position as Seeker, undisputed, by catching the Snitch in less than three minutes after its release. Ginny earned a position as a Chaser – alongside returning Katie Bell who remained as talented as ever – by pulling off some stunning manoeuvres and shooting a few spectacular goals. Harry didn’t know the other students who were chosen for the team personally, but they were all decent players and he imagined that with the strict training regime Ron had planned that they would swiftly grow into their roles.

 

“Congratulations on making the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” Ron addressed the group once the other potentials had left the pitch. “We’ve got enough talent in this team that I think we have a real shot towards the House Cup this year. I intend to see us win – who’s with me?”

 

The team gave a cheer and Ron grinned. “Fair warning to the lot of ya – I’m gonna drive us all hard in training, to whip us into shape, to get us working together seamlessly, and to make sure that we play to the best of our abilities in each and every game. We might have to put our blood, sweat and tears into this Quidditch season, but it will all be worth it when we hold that trophy in our hands, knowing that we _earned_ it. That we _deserve_ it. We are going to give Hogwarts a year they will never forget!”

 

The team cheered again and Harry smiled to himself. _Well done, Ron._ He had known that his friend had it in him somewhere; all he had needed was an opportunity.

 

Ron formally ended the tryouts session by informing his team that he expected to see them back at the pitch on Tuesday and Thursday evenings every week, “energetic, enthusiastic and ready to work hard”.

 

Spectators began to drift down from the stands to congratulate the players or reaffirm their confidence in Ron as captain.

 

“Ron,” Hermione began with a smile, but Lavender pushed her aside.

 

“Oh Ron,” she gushed, clutching his arm and beaming up at him, “that was _inspirational_! I have never heard a speech so passionate, so _moving…_ ”

 

A cocky grin spread across Ron’s face and he puffed up a bit. “Thanks Lavender, but it was nothing, really. I just spoke from the heart, you know?”

 

Harry frowned, noticing the hurt expression Hermione wore as Ron was fawned over by the blond and failed to even notice she was there.

 

He moved forward, but before he could say anything Ginny had appeared in front of him. “That was a great tryout today, Harry,” she complimented him warmly. “It’s good to see that you are still in top form.”

 

“Uh, thanks,” he replied, distracted by his efforts to see past her to check that Hermione was okay.

 

“D’you think I did alright?”

 

“Hm?” He looked back to Ginny and saw that she was looking at him expectantly. He forced himself to focus. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. You were brilliant Ginny,” he assured her. “You have loads of talent; the team is lucky to have you.”

 

Her gaze lowered and her lips curved into a coy smile. “You’re sweet to say that.”

 

“It’s true. You’re a born flier and I doubt there is a Keeper on any of the other teams who could hope to block you when you go in for a goal.”

 

She flipped her hair back over her shoulder, her smile becoming more confident. “Between us we’ll win that trophy for sure.”

 

“Definitely.”

 

He was going to head over to Ron and Hermione, but Ginny caught his attention again. “Harry?” He looked at her. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did for my brother. Being Quidditch captain means a lot to Ron and I think it was very noble of you to give it up for him.”

 

“Oh, well, I figured it was the right thing to do.”

 

“It’s can’t have been easy,” Ginny sympathised. “I know how much you love Quidditch.”

 

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, but Ron’s been _in_ love with it since before I even knew it existed. He deserves this.”

 

“You’re a good friend, Harry,” Ginny told him softly, and before he knew what was happening she had leaned closer to kiss him on the cheek. Then she sauntered away, hips swaying slightly.

 

Harry stood frozen in shock, his cheek burning in memory of rough stubble scraping across his skin before teeth clamped down hard on his lower lip and hands forced him-

 

“Harry?”

 

Fingertips grazed his arm and he wrenched himself backwards with a desperate yelp. “Don’t touch me!”

 

Stumbling away, he lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell hard, the jolt knocking reality back into place.

 

Hermione stood over him, concern and apology shining in her eyes. Behind her a small crowd had gathered, all staring at him with a mixture of confusion and worry. “Harry, are you all right?” “What’s wrong with him?” “What happened?” “Harry?”

 

His faced heated with humiliation. “I’m fine,” he muttered, clambering awkwardly to his feet. “Really, it’s nothing.”

 

“There’s nothing to see here,” Ron said loudly, shooing people away.

 

“Harry, I’m sorry,” Hermione fretted, unconsciously wringing her hands. “You had spaced out; I didn’t mean to-”

 

“It’s fine, Hermione,” he interrupted. “Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

 

“I’m worried about you,” she persisted. “Every time someone touches you, you flinch or freak out like you think they are going to hurt you.”

 

Harry was sure his ears were a flaming red now and he glared at the dirt smudges on his knees so he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. He knew it was stupid to think that they hadn’t noticed, but at least when they didn’t mention it he could pretend they remained blissfully unaware of the fact that he seemed to treat every light touch as a dire threat.

 

“But Harry, you are safe here with us, you know that right?” Hermione went on earnestly. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

 

“I know.” Now if only his brain could somehow get that message across to his body… So far, it seemed to be a hopeless cause.

 

“Well, if you need to talk-”

 

“Thanks,” Harry said abruptly. He knew she meant well, but he couldn’t deal with this right now. Or possibly ever. The last thing in the world that he wanted to do was tell them what had happened.

 

Hermione backed down, disappointed. “Okay. As long as you know that we’re here for you, whenever you’re ready.”

 

“I appreciate that,” he told her. _But it’s never going to happen._

 

He moved away from them, retrieving his Firebolt from where he had left it propped up against one of the goalposts. “I’m going to hit the showers.”

 

ooOOoo

 

Lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a staircase, Draco morosely contemplated whether getting up would be worth the effort. It felt as though the unforgiving stone stairs had managed to bruise every inch of his body on his way down, and a sharp stabbing pain radiating out from his wrist warned him that bruises were not the only damage that had been inflicted by the impromptu tumble.

 

Trip Jinx. He had not heard the spell being cast, but he had used it enough times to be able to recognise it in action as his feet were yanked out from under him. He didn’t know for certain who the perpetrator was, but the snickers he had heard once his addled brain had regained the ability to process sounds were familiar enough. Crabbe and Goyle. The fact that he had been the one to teach them that particular jinx last year for use in the Inquisitorial Squad was a cruel irony.

 

This wasn’t the first time he had been ambushed, but on this occasion they had chosen an uncommonly strategic location for the attack. Trust the first sign of intelligence shown by those two Neanderthals (Granger’s term, which he had decided fit rather well) to be figuring out better ways to hurt and degrade someone.

 

In the past few days Draco had made a point of leaping up immediately after an incident like this and pretending that it had never happened, but today he couldn’t seem to muster the energy. What was the point, if they were only going to knock him down again? He might as well save them the trouble by staying put.

 

“Oh my god… Draco, are you alright?”

 

A soft hand settled on his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the same pretty Slytherin girl who had spoken to him at the Welcoming Feast gazing down at him with concern showing in her deep brown eyes.

 

“Astoria?” he asked. He had never been formally introduced to her, but her sister Daphne Greengrass was in Draco’s year and Lucius had insisted years ago that he learn the names of every pureblood currently residing in Britain so he would immediately know the reputable blood status (or lack thereof) of any person he met.

 

“Shh,” she said, glancing worriedly over her shoulder.

 

“What are you doing here?” He kept his voice low, realising that she did not want to draw any attention to them.

 

“Making sure those idiots didn’t kill you.” She started to pull him to his feet and he tried to keep his pained exclamations to a minimum as a matter of pride. “I think what they are doing to you is abhorrent.”

 

“Well that makes one Slytherin,” he muttered, dusting off his robes with the hand that still remained somewhat operational.

 

She looked up from her critical examination of his swollen wrist to meet his gaze. “I am not the only one. I’m just stupid enough to risk people finding out.” She kept looking around nervously, though, her Slytherin instincts for self-preservation clearly at odds with her actions. “You should get Madam Pomfrey to take a look at that.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because it looks badly sprained.”

 

“No, I mean, why would you take the risk? This is twice now.”

 

She straightened the collar of his robe and tucked an errant strand of blond hair back into place. “Even before I was Sorted into Slytherin I had heard about the negative reputation it had. Every year of my schooling here I have hoped to see someone break out from the mould and prove that not every witch and wizard in this house is a bad person, and every year I have been disappointed. Until now. You are the first Slytherin I have seen who is willing to stick his neck out to do what is right instead of what is easy. I think you deserve a medal, not a regime to bully you back into submission.”

 

Draco gaped slightly, lost for words.

 

“There are those like me who admire your decision,” she went on, “but as yet we haven’t mustered the courage to follow in your footsteps. This is the least I can do.”

 

They heard the sound of footsteps approaching and Astoria hastily stepped away from him. “Unfortunately, at the moment, it is also the only thing I can do. I’m sorry.”

 

With those parting words she vanished around a corner, leaving a stunned Draco Malfoy in her wake.

 

“Draco?” It was Potter walking toward him. “Are you okay?”

 

“Uh huh,” he responded dumbly.

 

“Really? Because you’re looking a bit- What happened to your wrist?”

 

“I tripped down the stairs,” which wasn’t something he would normally admit to out loud, but he wasn’t quite thinking straight.

 

Potter winced sympathetically. “Ouch. I’ve done that one often enough to know how much it hurts.”

 

“Klutz,” Draco quipped, operating on autopilot, but the word represented all his mistaken assumptions about Potter before the events of this summer and it jogged his memory. “No-I mean- sorry. You’re no more of a klutz than I am; there are just inconsiderate people out there who seem to enjoy pushing us down staircases.”

 

Potter’s expression darkened. “Crabbe and Goyle?”

 

Draco sighed. “Who else?”

 

“Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkin-”

 

Draco decided to stop him before he could list all of his newfound enemies. “Point taken, but no, this time I’m fairly sure it was just Crabbe and Goyle.”

 

“We should have laced those floating cupcakes with poison instead,” Potter growled.

 

Draco arched his eyebrows, surprised by his vehemency. It was strange to realise that the fierce protectiveness Potter consistently showed for his friends was now being expressed on _his_ behalf.

 

“Okay, so that was a little extreme,” Potter backpedalled. “But those two are seriously beginning to make me mad. Why can’t they just leave you alone?”

 

Draco shrugged, the reason coming to him easily when he thought of what Astoria had said to him. “Because if they let me get away with changing sides, others may try the same thing. And since the Dark Lord is expecting to glean most of his new recruits from the Slytherin graduates, or at least accept a distinct lack of resistance from them, there is no way the children of Death Eaters can let that rebellion happen.”

 

“You make it sound as though the war is being fought within the walls of Hogwarts, instead of just raging outside.”

 

“In a sense it is,” Draco said frankly. “Dumbledore being here may make this seem like a safe haven, but the conflict has already slipped in through the cracks.”

 

Harry’s shoulders slumped slightly in resignation. “We’re not going to get a rest until this is all over, are we?”

 

“Seems unlikely.”

 

“Terrific,” he sighed. “Well, I guess we should get you over to the Infirmary.”

 

Draco glanced down at his still-throbbing wrist. “I can heal it myself.” He knew the spell he would need and, if it was fractured, he had his own brewed Skele-Gro potion.

 

“I don’t doubt that after all everything you did for Mrs Weasley and I,” Potter acknowledged, “but there’s no harm in having an expert look at it just in case.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

Potter frowned, clearly not believing him, and reached out to examine the wrist for himself. As he did, the sleeves of his robe rode up and Draco caught sight of skin scrubbed raw.

 

He froze. “Harry-”

 

“It’s nothing.” He dropped his arms to his sides and hurriedly shook the sleeves back into place.

 

“It is _not_ nothing,” Draco argued, recalling all-too-vividly the desperate violence to Potter’s movements as he had attacked his own skin with a scrubbing brush in the aftermath of Dudley’s assault. “What happened?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Potter muttered. “I just needed a shower after Quidditch tryouts. I made Seeker again.” He offered a faint smile, but Draco wasn’t going to be distracted.

 

“Of course you did. Was it a flashback?”

 

Potter didn’t say anything, but his silence was answer enough.

 

Draco lowered his voice, letting Potter know that this was a conversation that would not go beyond the two of them. “And does the pain help?”

 

Potter’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Not really,” he confessed quietly.

 

Draco waited for him to continue, knowing that if Potter did not open up to someone it would eventually tear him apart.

 

“I just… I want to feel _clean,_ but no matter how long or how hard I scrub, I can’t- I can’t get it off.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I can’t get _him_ off.”

 

“He’s long gone, Harry,” Draco reminded him gently. “He won’t ever hurt you again.”

 

“But I can still feel him,” Potter choked out. “Every time someone pats me on the back, or hugs me, or kisses me on the cheek-”

 

“Who did that?” Draco asked in surprise.

 

The question seemed to break through Potter’s growing hysteria. “Oh, uh, Ginny. I think I managed to avoid offending her this time, but Hermione’s convinced I’m a nutcase.”

 

“Ginny,” Draco repeated, annoyed but not surprised. Could the girl be any more obvious that she was into Potter? And could she be any more _oblivious_ to the fact that her advances were not welcome? “That girl really needs to learn when to back off.”

 

“She didn’t mean any harm by it,” Potter said in her defence. “She was just thanking me for letting Ron have captaincy of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.”

 

“She was hitting on you,” Draco stated bluntly.

 

Potter looked dubious. “She has a boyfriend.”

 

“Who can understand women?” Draco asked rhetorically. “She’s probably using him to try to make you jealous.”

 

He frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“Who said it has to make sense? A blind person could see that she’s still crushing on you.”

 

“Oh.” Potter swallowed nervously. “But I’m not… I don’t… should I?”

 

Draco smiled wryly. “Run that one by me again?”

 

Potter flushed. “Idon’tlikeherlikethat,” the words tumbled out. “I mean, she’s a friend, but I don’t think of her like… I mean, I don’t know if I’m… attracted to her.” He sounded almost ashamed by the admission.

 

“What, is there a law written down somewhere that Harry Potter has to fall in love with Ginny Weasley?”

 

“No, but… well, she’s pretty isn’t she?”

 

She wasn’t really Draco’s type, but he conceded that she probably did fall under the category of pretty, yes. “I suppose.”

 

“And she’s cool, and strong-willed and witty, and she’s a fantastic flier. Heaps of boys like her. Shouldn’t I feel lucky that I’m the one she’s interested in?”

 

Draco thought maybe he knew where this was going. “Well, if you don’t feel lucky, then how do you feel?”

 

Unconsciously, Potter started rubbing his left arm and his eyes glazed over a bit. “Terrified,” he whispered.

 

Draco was silent for a few moments and Potter refocused on him. “I’m a freak, aren’t I?”

 

“No!” Draco said sharply. “No you’re not. It’s just too soon. You have to give yourself time to heal.”

 

“What if I never get better? What if every time a girl comes near me, or touches me, I freak out and run away? What if I can’t ever have a real relationship with someone because he… because I’m broken goods? What if-”

 

“Harry.”

 

Potter sucked in a breath, halting the flow of panicked words.

 

“When the right girl comes along, she will love you no matter what has happened in your past. She’ll accept you the way you are, and she won’t push you to do or feel anything until you’re ready. You’ll fall for her a bit at a time, and you’ll eventually find that her touch makes you feel safe and happy instead of afraid. I don’t know who she is, or when you will meet her, but I do know that when the time comes the attraction between you won’t be forced; it will develop naturally. You’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

 

Potter smiled hesitantly. “I hope you’re right.”

 

“I’m always right,” Draco sniffed.

 

Potter snorted with amusement.

 

“Hey, what exactly are you trying to imply, Potter?” Draco asked heatedly.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Potter replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So, considering becoming a relationship counsellor are you?”

 

Draco wrinkled his nose. “No. A Healer, I think.”

 

“That’s too bad. I was hoping to make you deal with Ron and Hermione.”

 

“What about them?”

 

Potter shook his head. “Never mind. Speaking of healing, you should really go to the Infirmary so Madam Pomfrey can fix your wrist.”

 

Draco looked at the other boy seriously. He hadn’t forgotten the wounds that lay hidden beneath Potter’s robes. “Only if you come with me to get some salve for your skin.”

 

“I don’t need-”

 

Draco silenced him with a _look_ , and Potter relented. “Okay,” he sighed, sounding very put-upon. But Draco could have sworn he heard Potter mumble under his breath, “Thanks, Draco.”

 

ooOOoo


	32. Defence

Harry thought that over the past few weeks he had mastered the art of sneaking out of his dorm room in the early hours of the morning without disturbing anyone. Apparently not.

 

“Where ‘re you goin’?” Neville mumbled sleepily, blinking up at him as Harry froze in the act of pulling on his shoe.

 

“Just getting some fresh air,” Harry whispered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“You exercising again?” Neville asked, propping himself up on an elbow to look at him properly. At Harry’s puzzled expression he explained, “I saw you yesterday through the window.”

 

“Oh. Yeah. It’s a habit I started in the holidays and I don’t want to lose it.” Harry had been lazy in the first week or two of the year, but reading the news of deaths and disappearances in the _Daily Prophet_ reminded him that he had an enemy to fight and he needed to prepare. He couldn’t afford to be slack. Besides, it was better than lying awake in bed doing nothing for hours.

 

“It’s a good idea,” Neville said, keeping his voice low for the sake of the other boys who were still fast asleep. “Mind if I join you?”

 

Harry was surprised by the request, but he had no objection. “Sure, I’d appreciate the company.”

 

Neville swung his legs off the bed and stretched as he stood. “Thanks.”

 

He got ready quickly and they went down to the grounds together. Harry ran them through his routine and Neville managed to keep up fairly well, though Harry’s training definitely showed.

 

“You know, Harry,” Neville puffed, running alongside him as they did a circuit around the Quidditch pitch, “You should see if anyone else wants to do this with you. Or better yet, start up the DA again.”

 

Harry slowed. “Tonks is a great teacher.”

 

“Yeah, she is,” Neville agreed, “but the more practice we get the better, don’t you think? There is a lot of evil out there, and they’re not going to go easy on us just because we’re kids.”

 

Harry knew that was certainly true. And he did want to help his classmates learn to protect themselves and each other. “Do you think anyone will really be interested though?”

 

“The DA won’t have to be a secret this year,” Neville pointed out. “You might find that even more people want to join.”

 

“More?” Harry asked, a bit weakly, trying to imagine teaching so many of his peers all at once.

 

“It’ll be great,” Neville said. “We can all work together to improve our defence skills. The old hands from last year can help the new kids, the older students can help the younger ones… It won’t all be on you.”

 

Harry smiled. “You’ve thought a lot about this, haven’t you?”

 

Neville blushed. “I miss the DA meetings,” he mumbled. “I learned loads from you and it felt like we were really doing something important.”

 

Harry made up his mind. “We are,” he said firmly. “I’ll talk to Tonks and get her to sign off on this so it’s legitimate this time around and then we can spread the word.”

 

“You should put up posters in the common rooms,” Neville suggested, bouncing a little in excitement. “I could help you make them, if you want.”

 

“That would be great Neville, thanks.”

 

“No, thank _you,_ Harry,” Neville said sincerely. Harry was surprised to realise that Neville’s tone and expression had turned abruptly serious. “My whole life I have been terrified of the Death Eaters because I knew what they had done to my parents. I have always wanted vengeance, but I never thought I would have the guts, let alone the ability, to face them myself. But you gave me both of those, Harry. You started by teaching me to stand up against the bullies at school and to believe in myself. Last year in the DA, you taught me the Defence knowledge and skills I needed. You trusted me enough to let me come to the Ministry with you and you gave me the chance to confront my demons.” He flushed slightly. “I know I wasn’t much help; I still have a lot to learn. And now you’re willing to start up the DA again, which will _help_ me learn. I don’t think I can thank you enough.”

 

“Ah…” For a moment, Harry was struck speechless. He couldn’t quite believe how much of an impact he seemed to have had on his friend – and all for reasons that had nothing to do with his status as the Boy Who Lived. “I guess… you’re welcome?”

 

Neville smiled. “You’re a good person, Harry. The best person I know, in fact. We’re gonna be okay, and in the end I think we’ll all have you to thank for that.”

 

His words were simple and earnest and they let Harry know that Neville believed in him. Harry didn’t even know where to begin to express how much that meant.

 

“So, Harry… Race you back to the castle?”

 

Before Harry knew what was happening Neville had broken into a sprint; belatedly, Harry’s legs jolted into motion and he was off in hot pursuit.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Blimey,” Ron exhaled, eyes wide as he stared at the crowd spread out in front of them.

 

 _That’s the understatement of the century,_ Harry thought. He had expected that a few people would be interested in joining the DA, but this was a far cry from just a few people. This looked to be almost every student from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor – ranging all the way from first years to seventh years – crammed into the Room of Requirement, which was still visibly expanding to accommodate such a large number of people. And it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet; the official start time Neville had advertised on the posters.

 

A loud buzz of chatter currently filled the room as everyone waited and Harry tried to think of how he could possibly run this thing.

 

“I don’t think any extracurricular study group has ever earned this level of interest before,” Tonks mused from her chair behind them. She had loved the idea when Harry broached it to her, but requested that she be allowed to sit in as ‘an extra set of hands and eyes’. Harry thought at the time that having adult supervision was probably a good idea; now he was sure of it, especially since spells would probably be bouncing off the walls once they began practicing.

 

“I don’t think the students of Hogwarts have ever been this scared before,” Hermione replied quietly.   


The day before, tragedy had shaken the school. News arrived for a second year boy, Dwight Abrams, in the form of his tearful aunt – he had been the eldest child in a family of seven, but after an attack on his family home he was the only one left. Not even his newborn baby sister had been spared.

 

Harry suspected that, until that frozen moment of grief in the Great Hall at dinner, many of his peers had naively believed – or perhaps merely hoped – that their youth would grant them clemency in this war. Harry had known differently, of course, ever since Hagrid had told him how an evil wizard had tried to kill him as a baby. Death Eaters did not care how young or innocent you were; Voldemort certainly did not care. It seemed that the others in this school knew that now, too. And they were afraid.

 

He took a deep breath. “Okay guys, listen up!”

 

Conversations quieted and eyes turned to look at him expectantly.

 

“Because there are so many of us here, we’re going to have to do things a bit differently. So, can I have all the fifth, sixth and seventh year students who were in the DA last year step forward?”

 

Harry nodded to each of those who came up to stand with him at the front. “You are our senior members,” Harry told them, remembering with pride how much progress each of them had made last year. A number of medallions materialised on the table at his side; fashioned like Galleons but inscribed with the words ‘Senior DA’ and strung on plain black lanyards. He mentally thanked the Room and handed one out to each of them. A twitch of a thought on his part produced six other medallions that had white lanyards with the words also embroidered along them to distinguish them from the others, which he gave to Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny and Malfoy. He had come to think of them as his core group and he was not afraid to let others know it; these were the students he trusted the most and he knew he could count on each one of them no matter the situation. Besides, they deserved some recognition.

 

“We’re going to divide into groups,” Harry explained, “with a Senior member in charge of each. To start with we will be reviewing some of the basic defensive spells that the DA mastered last year to see where each of you are at and we’ll go on from there. So, I’m going to split you up now.” He looked back at Hermione, silently asking her if she knew of any easy ways to divide this massive crowd of students up into smaller, more manageable groups. She nodded and stepped up next to him, raising her wand.

 

“ _Crocea funis tribuo_.”

 

Golden lines shot out from her wand, winding around the assembled students and gently pulling them into circles containing roughly even numbers.

 

Harry smiled at her. “Thanks, Hermione.”

 

He led each of the Senior members over to a group, introduced them, mentioned one or two of the spells they had excelled with last year and then directed the group over to one of the square practice spaces; the Room had conveniently separated these out with see-through barriers enclosed on three sides with the fourth opened out into the middle of the room. This process occurred fairly smoothly, if he didn’t count the horrible jolt that went through him when Cho brushed her fingertips across his arm in thanks for his praise of her Levitation Charm, or when Ginny playfully nudged him as he described to her group how powerful she was and warned that they would be wise not to get on her bad side.

 

All in all, though, the Seniors appeared thrilled by their new level of responsibility and the groups seemed accepting of their new leaders.

 

Unfortunately, there was one problem Harry should have anticipated, but to be honest hadn’t even occurred to him until Seamus exclaimed loudly, “Oh _hell_ no, Harry!” He shook his head vehemently, his posture and expression screaming hostility. “You are _not_ putting _him_ in charge of this group. No way in hell.”

 

Harry glanced at the blond standing beside him, then turned a frown on Seamus. “Have you got a problem with Malfoy?”

 

“Have I- problem-” Seamus spluttered incredulously. “Of course I _have a problem!_ What is wrong with you, Harry? Don’t you know who he is?”

 

“Draco Malfoy, last time I checked,” Harry replied flatly. He was beginning to see where this was going and to be honest he had expected something like this to happen much sooner.

 

“Exactly! Draco _Malfoy_. I don’t know why you two have become so chummy all of a sudden, but in case you have forgotten, Harry – his father is a bloody _Death Eater!_ ”

 

“So?”

 

“So he’s the enemy!” Seamus shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

 

“They may have the same surname, but Draco and Lucius are two very different people,” Harry responded calmly. “You can’t judge Draco for his father’s crimes when he had nothing to do with them.”

 

“No? Well I can damn well judge him for all the stuff he’s done personally, can’t I? Let’s see – over the past five years at this school he has bullied and insulted practically every student in this room, you most of all. He has been sneering and arrogant and snide, acting like he is better than everyone else and behaving like he can get away with anything. He has shamelessly reduced first years to tears with his sharp tongue, belittled and humiliated us, and tried to physically attack you on more than one occasion. He has abused his position as a prefect, and what was that other thing…” Seamus’s eyes blazed with anger. “Oh yeah. He was on the very same _Inquisitorial Squad_ that hunted and destroyed the DA last year! He-”

 

But Harry had heard enough, interrupting before Seamus could continue his tirade any longer. “-has changed.”

 

“So everything he has done is forgotten just like that?”

 

Harry narrowed his eyes at the other boy. “You don’t exactly have a clean record with me yourself, Seamus. If you recall, at the start of last year you called me a liar to my face and treated me like dirt for months until the Quibbler interview came out. I thought we were friends – I thought I could count on you, but when I really needed your support you rejected me. But you don’t see me still holding a grudge against you. So I think you can grant Malfoy the same consideration. He’s different now.”

 

“Where’s the proof of that, Harry? What if all this is just a ruse to get to you? What reason do you have to trust him?”

                                                                                                                                                                                                     

The group of students behind Seamus had all been nodding or murmuring their agreement as he spoke, occasionally shooting glares in Malfoy’s direction, and at this they began to call out demands for an explanation. It felt like the first DA meeting all over again. He sighed.

 

“Alright!” Harry called out, boosting his voice with a mild _Sonorous_ charm to get everyone’s attention. “All of you listen up, because I’m only going to say this once. Most of you are only in here because you want to learn how to protect yourself, right? Don’t get me wrong; there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. With a war raging the outside world is fraught with danger and ultimately you are your own last line of defence.

 

“But there are those of us who are fighting for something bigger than ourselves, and I’m sorry but I will not stand here and listen to you pass judgement on Draco when he is one of the few people in this room who has risked everything to stand by me in the battle against Voldemort.

 

“You want to know why I trust him, Seamus? I trust him because he was there for me when I needed him the most. He fought by my side against Death Eaters trying to kill us and he saved my life.” There was so much more he could say, but although Malfoy had saved him in more ways than one and continued to be his lifeline, Harry was not comfortable with going into any more detail. The only people who knew the full extent of what had gone down were he and Malfoy, and it was going to stay that way. Harry shot Malfoy a glance though, silently thanking him for all those things that remained unsaid. He received a slight nod in reply.

 

Harry went on, needing to end this dispute before it went any further. “Malfoy has taken enough crap from the Slytherins in the past few weeks for choosing to side with us, without the lot of you laying into him as well. He is _one of us_ now, and I expect you all to treat him as such.”

 

Thinking those to be his final words on the matter, Harry quieted his voice and made to go check on one of the other groups.

 

“But he wasn’t in the DA last year,” Seamus persisted. “Why does he get to be a Senior?”

 

“Because, Seamus,” Harry said, barely refraining from snapping in his annoyance, “Not only has Malfoy been training with Hermione, Ron and I for most of the summer, he also happens to be one of the best damn fighters I have ever seen.  When we were attacked and I was injured, Malfoy got me to safety while simultaneously fending off ten Death Eaters on his own. Pay attention and he might just be able to teach you a thing or two.”

 

Harry held the glare on his dorm mate for a few moments longer, but Seamus closed his mouth and did not look inclined to offer up any more objections.

 

“Over to you then, Malfoy.” Before leaving the group Harry leaned in to the blond slightly and lowered his voice. “Let me know if you have any trouble.”

 

“I’ll be fine,” Malfoy muttered. He straightened and levelled a cool gaze at the students assembled in front of him. “Let’s start with a demonstration shall we? Care to be my partner, Finnigan? You were in the DA for half a meeting, so you must know loads more than I do.”

 

Harry winced at the acerbic tone Malfoy was using, but he wasn’t going to interfere. Words, after all, could only go so far, and Harry suspected that he knew what Malfoy had in mind to assert his authority. He decided to watch from a distance.

 

“Stunners and Shield spells are the two of the basics that you all will want to have in your arsenal, so we’ll start with those.”

 

The majority of the students stepped back, allowing Malfoy and Seamus some room to move. “You know the incantation for a Stunning spell I presume?”

 

“Yes,” Seamus responded thinly, appearing to struggle momentarily with the temptation to use barbed sarcasm instead. The way his grip tightened around his wand suggested to Harry that he was more interested in trying to knock out and simultaneously discredit Malfoy than illustrate how to use the spell, but Harry wasn’t worried. He knew Malfoy could handle himself.

 

“Then, if you would be so kind.”

 

Seamus raised his wand. “My pleasure…” He pretended to glance around casually, as though surveying his options- “ _STUPEFY!_ ”

 

A wall of transparent blue light shot up in front of Malfoy almost faster than the eye could see. The Stunner rebounded; Seamus went down like a sack of potatoes with no time even to look surprised. Malfoy had not even opened his mouth.

 

Stepping over to his opponent, Malfoy calmly revived Seamus and pulled him to his feet.

 

“In a combat zone, it is not enough to know how to cast a Shield charm,” Malfoy said. “If you let a hostile spell bounce off your shield in just any direction, you could inadvertently take down an ally who could otherwise have been watching your back. In addition, you will have missed the opportunity to strike back at the enemy without wasting precious seconds to shoot off another spell. A Shield Charm, raised and angled correctly, can send a spell directly back to the caster. It takes practice, concentration and skill, but the results are well worth the effort. I am willing to teach anyone – provided, of course, that they are willing to learn from me.” He looked directly at Seamus. “Interested?”

 

There was a long pause during which a myriad of emotions flitted across Seamus’ face and Malfoy remained outwardly impassive. Finally, grudgingly, Seamus relented. “Guess it could come in handy.”

 

Harry smiled to himself, and moved away to check on the others. A few minutes of observing each revealed that his Seniors were all handling their groups in different ways, playing to their individual strengths.

 

Hermione had her students seated in a circle around her and was laying down a detailed theoretical groundwork for the spells they would be doing.  Most of her group were Ravenclaws who seemed to appreciate the thorough explanation, listening to her words with rapt attention, and it wasn’t long before she had them up and practicing anyway.

 

Ginny was running her group through drills, almost like a Quidditch practice session. She demonstrated the first spell, with considerable skill, then had them all try it once and moved down the line to critique and correct their technique, before repeating the process.

 

Ron had split his group into two, setting them up into battle formation as opposing teams and guiding them through strategic spell work that had them constantly moving and rotating while keeping up a nearly continuous stream of fire.

 

Neville’s students were divided into groups of three – a first, second or third year partnered with two fourth, fifth, sixth or seventh years. The set up meant that the younger students were receiving greater support while the two older students could challenge each other. Neville himself was working with two first years, gently encouraging and coaxing them through the motions of the spells.

 

Luna’s group were spread out as they duelled in whatever combinations they wished and Luna seemed to approach individuals at random with titbits of advice. Harry realised that every student was receiving attention though, and despite some of her comments sounding somewhat odd there was always a marked improvement in their technique by the time she moved away.

 

The other DA Seniors were not quite as strong in their leadership or abilities and Harry slipped in to offer his help where he felt it was needed, but overall he felt that the session was going well.

 

They ran well over the time the meeting was originally supposed to end. Although no one seemed inclined to leave, Harry knew that curfew was approaching and the younger students especially were growing tired. The Room of Requirement obligingly provided him with a whistle – the same one, he thought, that he had used last year – and he blew a long note on it to get everyone to stop and look in his direction.

 

He boosted his voice again. “Great work today everyone. It has been fantastic to see you all trying your hardest and working together. We will meet back here the same time next week and we’ll be working in the same groups so remember who your Senior member is. If you ever have any Defence related questions, please don’t hesitate to ask one of us.

 

“In the meantime, keep in mind that we are all safest when we are relying on and helping each other. That’s all for now, so good night, and well done guys.”

 

The students filed out of the Room of Requirement, a few of them passing by to thank Harry or ask what he had planned for future meetings. Most of the Seniors hung back, eager to ask him how he thought they had done or to share examples of progress made by their group members during the session. Ernie Macmillan shook his hand vigorously and expressed his gratitude for being entrusted with such a position of responsibility in the DA, swearing that he wouldn’t let Harry down, and the others echoed the sentiment.

 

“I should be thanking all of you,” Harry responded, looking around at the students he had taught last year who were now all leaders in their own right. “I couldn’t have done this today without your help and I’m grateful you were willing to give it a go even though I didn’t give you much warning. To be honest I didn’t expect so many people to turn up!” A few people chuckled. “You were all brilliant though. I’ll let you know in a few days what we’ll be covering next week so that you can prepare, and feel free to give me any ideas or suggestions that you have.”

 

Finally, it was only Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco left in the cavernous room that suddenly seemed so empty.

 

Harry exhaled slowly and sank into a comfy armchair that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.

 

“You did really well, Harry,” Hermione assured him. “You’re a natural at this.”

 

“I think it was easier when there weren’t so many people, even if we did have to keep it a secret,” Harry confessed.

 

“You know, Harry… I think it’s meant to be this way,” Ron said slowly. “I mean, I know we call it Dumbledore’s Army, but you’re the one people look to now. You’re like our commander. We trust you and we’ll follow you.”

 

Harry felt a squirm of discomfort. “I’m not trying to recruit anyone. I just want people to be able to defend themselves. I want them to be safe.”

 

“They know,” Hermione said, smiling softly. “They can tell how much you care about them. And that’s why they’ll fight alongside you, if you ask.”

 

Harry just nodded, but he knew he would never want to draw anyone else into this war if he could help it. Imagining some of those little first years in a pitched battle against Death Eaters made him feel nauseous. A part of him felt guilty for teaching them how to fight rather than going out there right now and making sure they would never have to. He knew why he couldn’t, not yet at least, but that didn’t make it any easier. He just had to hope that what they learned in the DA would be enough to save their lives if they were ever attacked before he had the chance to end this once and for all.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Hey, Potter, before you go.”

 

Potter waved Granger and Weasley to go on to the Gryffindor Tower without him, then turned back to Draco. “Yeah?”

 

“I just wanted to make sure that you were doing okay.” Draco knew that being surrounded by so many people made Potter feel uncomfortable at the best of times, let alone having so many eyes focused on him at once. He had handled it well – and Draco had to admit that he was impressed – but he also knew from experience that a calm exterior didn’t mean that Potter’s insides weren’t roiling with nerves.

 

Potter smiled a little. “Thanks. I’m fine. Actually, these days, I think talking to a big group is almost easier than the one-to-one stuff. Kind of like it’s easier to hide out in the open.” He flushed and looked down.

 

Draco thought he understood. With a large group you became a performer, slipping into whatever role you needed with enough distance between you to ensure the act is accepted at face value. Individuals had a higher chance of seeing through you.

 

“You’re still the same person, you know,” Draco said cautiously. “I know you don’t want people to know what you have been through, but none of that changes who you are.”

 

“And who am I?” Potter asked, his words a combination of a challenge and a plea.

 

“Only you can answer that,” Draco replied. “But whoever it is, they are someone who can inspire people and change this world for the better.”

 

“Are you sure about that?”

 

Draco smiled, thinking about how this boy had so radically changed his own life without even meaning to. “Yes, I am.”

 

Potter paused for a few moments, as though processing what he had said and eventually coming to accept it, or at least deciding not to argue.

 

“What about you, Malfoy?” Potter asked. “Are you alright, after that whole thing with Seamus? He was way out of line…”

 

“No, he had a point,” Draco sighed. He had been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he had started eating meals at the Gryffindor table. He had been the subject of a number of dirty looks over the past few weeks, but until now no one had dared to speak up against him. Finnegan had probably felt more confident to confront him when he was backed up by a group of like-minded supporters. “I wouldn’t have trusted me if I were in his position. He had every reason to be suspicious and no real reason not to be.”

 

Potter frowned and folded his arms. “He should have learned his lesson from last year and chosen to believe me this time. I consider you a friend – that should be good enough for him. For all of them.”

 

 _Friend._ This was the first time that Potter had said it out loud, but the understanding had been there between them for a while now. It was still such a strange concept, and only a few months ago Draco would have scoffed at the very idea. But a lot had changed since then and for Draco this was the first friendship he’d had with anyone that really meant something.

 

“Well, I appreciate the speech you made on my behalf.”

 

“I meant every word. Honestly, Malfoy, I have no idea where I would be right now if it wasn’t for you. Saving my life, keeping me sane, making me feel that I’m more than just a weapon… making me feel like I matter.”

 

“You do,” Draco reminded him, feeling a slight pang at the thought that there had been people in Potter’s life who deliberately tried, and succeeded, to make him feel otherwise.

 

Potter smiled faintly at his words. “Exactly. No one else has ever really said anything like that to me before. You changed my life; rescued me from the Dursleys, saved me from myself, and I guess what I’m trying to say is… Thank you, Draco.”

 

“It is no more than you deserve, Harry,” Draco said firmly. “Remember that. You have every right to be lo-” He coughed, realising this conversation was becoming dangerously sappy for two self-respecting teenage boys “-to be treated right. Anyone who dares to treat you badly is a no-good low life. Understand?”

 

The smile became more confident. “Yeah.”

 

“Anyway, I don’t think Seamus will be giving us any more trouble, so don’t get it into your head to start worrying about me.”

 

“We haven’t managed to deal with the Slytherins yet,” Potter pointed out.

 

Draco knew that, when this conversation ended and they went their separate ways, he would be heading down to the Slytherin dungeons and would have to fight his way through hostile glares, snide insults, shoves and the occasional hex to reach his room and the safety of the wards he had set up around his bed. He was glad, at least, that Crabbe and Goyle didn’t have the brains or the skills to break through those wards; if they did, he hated to think what they would do to him while he slept.

 

“It is fine, Potter,” Draco said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “I can handle my own.”

 

Besides, he figured that as long as the Slytherins were fixated on him, they wouldn’t start in on Potter… or get up to anything worse.

 

ooOOoo


	33. Hogsmeade

Under the cloak of darkness, hidden even from the faint light of the moon and stars by the hulking trees that loomed above them, three figures met in secrecy.

 

“Are you sure no one saw you leave the castle?”

 

One replied with a terse “Yes”, while the other merely grunted.

 

“And you didn’t pass any of those meddlesome Centaurs on your way here?”

 

“No.”

 

“The Dark Lord was expecting to hear from you far sooner.”

 

“Sorry,” came the muttered reply.

 

“I trust that these summons mean that you have useful information for us at last? A weakness we can exploit perhaps? Or an opportunity for us to strike?”

 

 “Yeah. Two weekends from now.”

 

“He won’t be alone, but it’s the best we can do.”

 

“He’ll be outside the wards though? Away from Dumbledore?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, we’ll make it work. The Dark Lord is getting impatient to see this done. When and where?”

 

ooOOoo

 

“How did I know you were going to say that?” Harry sighed.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, her expression sympathetic. “But I think it would be for the best.”

 

“No fair, Professor,” Ron whined. “It’s like third year all over again. Harry shouldn’t be punished for being the Chosen One.”

 

“They are just trying to keep him safe, Ronald,” Hermione said. “And I’m sorry Harry, but I agree with her; it is too dangerous. We can stay back with you if you want.”

 

Harry shook his head. “No, that’s okay. You guys go on ahead, have fun. I have planning I need to do for the DA anyway.”

 

“Are you sure, mate?”

 

The corner of Harry’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “I would never try to keep you from Honeydukes, Ron. Just bring me back something good – and _not_ Cockroach Clusters.”

 

“Will do,” Ron promised, not quite managing to hide his relief. He had been looking forward to the Hogsmeade trip for weeks, but as soon as Harry had seen the sign up on the Gryffindor notice board he had expected that he would be told not to go. And as fun as the trips were, he knew it was probably not worth the risk.

 

“I do have the right day, don’t I?” Malfoy asked with a puzzled expression on his face, coming up to join them. “I could have sworn Hogsmeade was today, but Crabbe and Goyle are still fast asleep.”

 

“It’s today,” Ron confirmed.

 

“Ah, Mr Malfoy, I was meaning to speak to you as well,” Professor McGonagall said. “I have just been telling Mr Potter that I do not think it is advisable for him to attend the Hogsmeade outing. I know I am not your Head of House, but I strongly feel that it would be a good idea for you to stay behind also. Unfortunately, you are both targets and Hogsmeade village is not nearly as defensible as the castle.”

 

“I was going to buy my mother a birthday present,” Malfoy protested, but Harry suspected that he wasn’t going to object too much after being attacked by Death Eaters because he had left the wards of Number 4 Privet Drive.

 

“Is that a good idea?” Hermione asked, concerned. “Wouldn’t that compromise her cover story?”

 

“I know; I wasn’t going to put my name on it. But I cannot let the occasion pass without doing something.” There was a hint of pain in his grey eyes and Harry was reminded anew of everything Malfoy had given up by making that fateful decision to switch sides all those months ago.

 

“Well I could pick something up for you if you like,” Hermione offered.

 

After a moment of hesitation, Malfoy relented and passed her a couple of Galleons. “Make it something nice.”

 

“So you will be staying with Mr Potter, then?” McGonagall asked.

 

“Guess so.”

 

Hermione and Ron bid them goodbye, leaving Harry and Malfoy to head over to the library.

 

Malfoy sank into one of the chairs and stared blankly at the desk in front of him, his posture the closest Harry had ever seen him come to slouching.

 

“The weather looks horrible anyway,” Harry tried.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re not happy to be stuck inside though, are you?”

 

Malfoy blew out a breath. “Not particularly.”

 

Harry waited, knowing Malfoy would elaborate if he wanted to.

 

“Honestly, it feels like all we’ve done is trade prisons.”

 

Harry understood that feeling all too well. First Privet Drive, then the Burrow, then Grimmauld Place, and now Hogwarts; all ostensibly different and yet essentially the same in that they served to keep them separate from the rest of the world. Freedom was something he sorely missed, and he could tell that Malfoy felt the same.

 

“At least Hogwarts is bigger,” Harry said, searching for a positive.

 

“Small comfort,” Malfoy retorted. “I swear, when the Dark Lord is gone I am going to hop on a broom and fly wherever the hell I want until I fall off the edge of the earth – or fall off the broom, whichever comes first.”

 

Harry smiled picturing it; nothing but them, the sky, and the world of possibilities stretching out before them. “Count me in.”

 

“Sure.” An answering smile flitted across his face, but it soon faded. “Seems like a far off dream though.”

 

“We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” Harry agreed. Filled with renewed determination, he pulled out the small notebook he now usually carried around with him and stood up. “Come on, we have a spare day, so let’s spend it trying to find these Horcruxes.”

 

They started searching through the books, looking for information on famous Wizarding artefacts that Voldemort might have used or defensible hiding places in Hogwarts where he might have stashed one.

 

“Where else would Voldemort consider important or safe enough to hide a part of his soul?” Harry wondered aloud, chewing on the end of his quill as he read through the check list. “His Grandfather’s cottage was significant because it was his link to his magical heritage. He wouldn’t want to go anywhere near the Riddles, though, because he hates that he is part Muggle.”

 

“I still can’t believe he’s half-blood,” Malfoy chipped in, shaking his head. “No wonder he changed his name.”

 

Harry raised an eyebrow.

 

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being half-blood,” Malfoy covered quickly, “but he would never have managed to gain any followers if he had started his advocacy for purebloods with a Muggle surname.”

 

Harry couldn’t gainsay that. “True. Then we have the cave Kreacher talked about, which Dumbledore said had something to do with his childhood.”

 

“It was probably related to his discovery of his magic,” Malfoy mused.

 

Harry nodded. “I know he had no love for the orphanage he grew up in or the people he grew up with, so it had to be something like that. He considered Hogwarts his home, which is why I’m convinced that one of the Horcruxes has to be here, somewhere. Nagini he keeps with him. And the only other place we know Voldemort left one of his Horcruxes was with your father.”

 

“Mm,” Malfoy agreed absently. “Which leaves us with the question, where else?”

 

But Harry paused, a thought dawning on him. “Or _who_ else. Voldemort must have trusted Lucius explicitly to entrust a piece of his soul to him.”

 

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “A trust which my father betrayed. I’m surprised that the Dark Lord didn’t execute him on the spot when he found out what had happened to the diary. I guess he did not want to make a big deal out of it, since I assume he has not revealed the secret of his immortality to anyone. He wouldn’t be a true Slytherin if he did.”

 

“That’s not my point though. If Voldemort gave one of his Horcruxes to Lucius to look after, maybe he did the same with another of his followers!”

 

Malfoy’s eyes lighted with comprehension. “Of course,” he breathed. “Why didn’t we think of this before?”

 

“Can you think of anyone he would trust enough to do that?”

 

“He trusts Professor Snape,” Malfoy suggested, “but Snape spends too much time with Dumbledore and the Dark Lord would not want to risk Dumbledore finding out. Besides, if he had one, you would think he would have given it over by now.”

 

“Who else?”

 

“The only other person I can think of is my Aunt Bellatrix.” Malfoy nodded to himself. “Yes, almost definitely. She is his most passionate, loyal follower; she worships him. In fact, I’m sure of it – if he was going to give anyone a Horcrux, it would be h-”

 

“Draco!” an urgent voice hissed.

 

Startled, Harry spun to the sound, but at first he couldn’t see anyone.

 

“Who’s there?” Malfoy asked warily.

 

A girl Harry didn’t recognise peeked out from behind one of the bookcases. Half of her face was covered by her long wavy hair, as though she was unconsciously still trying to hide.

 

“Astoria?” Malfoy said, and from that Harry surmised that she was a younger Slytherin. “What is it?”

 

“I have to talk to you!” she whispered, looking worriedly back over her shoulder. “But if they find out I was here, they’ll be furious.”

 

“Who? What’s going on?”

 

“Crabbe and Goyle. They told all of the Slytherins not to go on the Hogsmeade trip today.”

 

Harry and Malfoy exchanged nervous looks. “Are they planning to ambush us or something?”

 

She shook her head. “No, no, it’s much worse than that! I think something bad is going to happen in Hogsmeade. They warned us to stay far away from there if we didn’t want to get hurt.”

 

“What do you mean? Are they going to hurt someone?”

 

“Not Crabbe and Goyle; they stayed here too! But, Draco… you haven’t been spending any time in the Common Room, so you don’t know what is going on with those two. They spend most of their time bragging about how everything changed for them over the summer, how important they are now, how they have a special job to do… And I swear, I caught sight of a mark on Goyle’s left arm the other day.” She shivered, glancing back worriedly again and shrinking against the bookcase.

 

“A mark?” Harry echoed, feeling a lurch of alarm. “As in a _Dark Mark_?”

 

Her words were barely audible as she replied, “I think so.”

 

Harry was stunned. “They’re Death Eaters.”

 

Malfoy seemed equally as shocked by the revelation, but his reasoning hurtled forward. “And if they are not causing the trouble in Hogsmeade themselves, then…”

 

“They probably passed on the information that there was a Hogsmeade trip planned for today.”

 

“To the Dark Lord.” Malfoy looked sickened. “Death Eaters are going to attack Hogsmeade. Crabbe and Goyle set those animals on innocent students!”

 

Harry’s thoughts flashed to an image of the third-year student he had been helping to learn the Disarming spell last week. They were all still so young and untested; there was so much they didn’t know –

 

“We have to get there right now!” Harry exclaimed. He threw down his notebook and quill and sprinted for the exit of the library.

 

Malfoy caught his arm before he made it two steps out into the corridor, jerking him to a halt. “No, Potter, wait! It could be a trap! I doubt that they want to wipe out an entire generation of wizarding children; but Potter, one thing we know for _certain_ is that they want you dead.”

 

“Ron and Hermione are there!” Harry yelled. “And Neville and Luna and Ginny – _everyone_! I have to go!”

 

“You will be playing straight into their hands!” Malfoy insisted. “They probably thought you would be there and that’s why they planned the attack in the first place. If you go now you will be giving them exactly what they want!”

 

“I don’t care! I promised the DA that I would protect them.”

 

“No, you promised you would train them to protect themselves.”

 

“And they’re not ready yet! It’s my responsibility to help them. I’m going and I won’t let you stop me!” Harry broke free from Malfoy’s grip and started running.

 

Behind him, he could hear footsteps in hot pursuit and Astoria’s voice calling out, “Draco, where are you going? Come back; it’s not safe! You have to do the smart thing and tell the Headmaster, I didn’t mean for you to go charging off-”

 

“You tell him,” Malfoy yelled back. “I’m not letting Potter go alone.”

 

Within a few long strides Malfoy had caught up to him. “How do you plan on getting there?”

 

“Secret passageway,” Harry puffed, rounding a few corners until he found the statue of the one-eyed witch. He tapped the hump with his wand hurriedly. “ _Dissendium_!”

 

The doorway opened and Harry didn’t pause to take in Malfoy’s expression of amazement. He lit the tip of his wand, squeezed through the gap that seemed tighter than the last time, slid feet first down the stone slide and hurtled onward as soon as he hit the damp earth.

 

“When did you find this?” Draco asked between breaths as they navigated the winding tunnel.

 

“My dad and his friends were the ones who found it – it’s a long story.”

 

“This is how you snuck into Hogsmeade in third year, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah. Leads straight to the cellar of Honeydukes.”

 

“And what’s the plan?”

 

Harry didn’t reply; his thoughts on the matter had not expanded much beyond: ‘ _I need to be there. I can make a difference.’_

 

“Crazy Gryffindors,” Malfoy grumbled. “No wonder you manage to get into so much trouble.”

 

“I’ll think of something.”

 

“We don’t even know what is happening.”

 

Harry caught sight of a familiar set of stone steps up ahead. “Well, we’re about to find out,” he said grimly, gritting his teeth to keep up the fast pace as they climbed until he finally caught sight of a faint crack of light above them. “This is it,” he whispered.

 

They crept up to the trap door and listened intently. Harry couldn’t hear anything that would suggest a battle was taking place upstairs, but he couldn’t hear the normal sounds of a bustling shop either.

 

“Is that someone crying?” Malfoy asked in a hushed whisper, pushing back a loose strand of blond hair.

 

Harry’s heart sank; he heard it, too. Maybe they were already too late.

 

“I’m going up,” he decided, though he feared what he would find. “You don’t have to come with me.”

 

Malfoy just looked at him.

 

“Right. Let’s go then.”

 

Wand in hand and spells at the ready, Harry cautiously pushed open the trap door. No one was in sight, but the crying was louder and he could tell now that there was more than one person.

 

Hardly daring to breathe, they climbed out into the basement and ascended the wooden staircase. Harry wished he had brought his Invisibility Cloak, but there hadn’t been enough time and it would have been difficult to mask the opening of the door anyway.

 

“Ready?” he whispered and received a tense nod in reply.

 

He did a mental count to three, braced himself and flung the door wide open.

 

No Death Eaters. No blood or injuries. No visible damage to the shop.

 

Just seven people – among them Mr Flume, the balding shop owner, and his wife – all sitting morosely on the floor and staring with dread at the entrance. A few of the women were sobbing into their hands and one man was repeating, over and over, “Make it stop, make it stop, please make it stop.”

 

Something felt very wrong here.

 

“Hello?” Harry called quietly. “Is everyone alright?”

 

Only Mr Flume turned to look at him and he shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing will ever be alright again.”

 

It was as though their depression was contagious; Harry could feel his spirits sinking, his will to keep moving fading away. “What happened?” he forced himself to ask.

 

“It’s still happening,” Mr Flume said hoarsely.

 

“Potter!” Malfoy snapped. “Look!”

 

Harry frowned, staring without comprehension in the direction he was pointing. Then he caught sight of a flash of bushy brown hair passing by the window and his vision suddenly sharpened, taking in the chaos rampaging through the village. Students were running everywhere, screaming, shooting off frantic spells, bleeding. Some lay unmoving on the ground. Masked figures advanced menacingly through the crowd.

 

It was a war zone out there.

 

“What are you doing just _sitting_ here?” Harry exclaimed, horrified that these adults could just sit there and do nothing while children were under attack. “They need your help!”

 

“There’s nothing we can do,” Mr Flume said dully. “We’re trapped in here. If we try to leave, they’ll come for us.”

 

“Cowards,” Malfoy sneered, striding for the door. But then he froze and the colour drained from his face.

 

Harry moved up beside him, concerned. “What is-?” And then he felt it too.

 

The cold seeping into the very core of his being. The suppression of every happy thought and modicum of hope he had. Darkness creeping in from the corners of his mind, dredging up echoes of every painful experience he had ever tried to forget.

 

White fog swirled around him.

 

_“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything-”_

_“Kill the spare!”_

_“There’s nothing you can do, Harry… nothing… he’s gone…”_

_“Stupid, worthless freak!”_

“Potter!”

 

_“There’s no use fighting this, Potter, I always get my way in the end.”_

Harry gasped, floundering, strength crumbling.

 

“Don’t! Stop it! _Harry!”_

Harry was drowning, but something within him battled against passing out. He knew that voice and he knew it wasn’t a memory. He sounded so distressed. Something was happening to them and he knew what it was, he just couldn’t think, couldn’t remember what to do.

 

_“You know what I want.”_

 

Oh god, he couldn’t go through this again. He couldn’t survive this. He didn’t want to survive this.

 

“You’re going to kill him! Stop it! _Please_ stop!”

 

But that wasn’t how it went. This voice wasn’t there until afterwards. He remembered, and if he remembered then this wasn’t really happening. It was just a memory.

 

And that was when he realised.

 

Dementors were just outside the door.

 

“Expecto Patronum,” he whispered.

 

_Rough hands reaching for him-_

 

No! He needed to think of something happy. He forced himself to open his eyes, trying to break through the suffocating fog, searching for something that could keep him grounded.

 

Malfoy was there beside him, pale and shaking, trapped by a memory of his own.

 

“Don’t die, Harry, oh god, don’t die.”

 

Harry realised what he was listening to. Malfoy reliving his worst memory. Reliving Harry’s close call with death at the hands of Uncle Vernon.

 

He didn’t want Harry to die. He had saved his life. He cared. He really cared.

 

Harry’s heart swelled with emotion and the fog was pushed back enough for him to see and think clearly.

 

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry yelled. A silver stag burst from his wand, galloping unimpeded through the windows. Unearthly shrieks were heard from the Dementors as the conjured Patronus drove them away from the shop.

 

Malfoy gasped in a huge lungful of air, looking around wildly. “Potter?”

 

“Dementors,” Harry explained. “They’re gone now.”

 

Malfoy nodded, though he looked as drained as Harry felt.

 

Harry looked around, realising that they were in Honeydukes Sweet Shop. He grabbed a stack of chocolate bars from a nearby shelf and tossed one to each of the adults struggling to emerge from their comatose states, one to Malfoy and tore one open for himself.

 

“I’ll pay you later, Mr Flume,” Harry promised, taking a large bite and feeling warmth spread through to the tips of his fingers as he swallowed.

 

A loud yell came from outside. “Hey, that’s Potter’s Patronus! HE’S HERE!”

 

“So much for the element of surprise,” Malfoy sighed, quickly finishing off his chocolate bar and grasping his wand securely again.

 

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

 

“I know. But what now?”

 

Harry looked back to the adults and saw that they were beginning to stir. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen many adults outside, so he assumed that all the shops and homes were being guarded by Dementors to prevent interference. He walked over to Mr Flume and slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Snap out of it, Mr Flume. I have an important job for you.”

 

The man blinked up at him, his eyes focusing in on the iconic scar. “Potter? ‘Arry Potter?”

 

“That’s right. The Dementors are being driven away from the village as we speak; I need you to take your chocolate and spread it around to as many people as you can. We need everyone up and fighting if we’re going to stand a chance against these Death Eaters.”

 

“But-”

 

“Do it, Mr Flume,” Harry ordered.

 

The man swallowed and clambered to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

 

 _‘You’re like our commander’_ , Ron had said. That wasn’t what Harry wanted to be.

 

But it was what he needed to be.

 

“Get to it!” he barked to the shop owner who hastened to obey, then turned back to Malfoy. “We have to get the students organised and build a defence that will last until Mr Flume gets us our reinforcements.”

 

“How do you want to do this?”

 

Harry thought for a moment, then outlined a very sketchy plan to which Malfoy added a few hasty suggestions. They didn’t have time for anything more detailed or complex. They just had to hope it would work.

 

They both burst out of Honeydukes at the same time and dashed off in opposite directions. Malfoy was only visible for a few seconds before he took a flying leap over a squat stone wall into someone’s front garden and took refuge behind it. Harry, on the other hand, ran out into the open. Almost every Death Eater was tracking the stag Patronus, so once he was sure it had done its job Harry waved his wand to call it back to himself.

 

“There he is!”

 

“Harry Potter!”

 

“Grab him!”

 

With a burst of concentration, Harry split his Patronus into a dozen smaller orbs of light and sent them shooting off in all directions. At the same time a similar number burst forth from Malfoy’s position, but these were not so random; each one carrying a message, they sailed off into the crowd to find certain individuals.

 

The Death Eaters were getting closer, but Harry needed to be the focus of attention for a few moments longer, at least until the messages could be received and acted upon. He settled back into a battle-ready stance and as soon as the first Death Eater was within range he began to cast as quickly as he could.

 

Curses whistled past him as he alternately dodged and deflected. Far from knocking any of the enemy out for the count, it was all Harry could do to keep one step ahead of them, but he did the best he could. He thought a few of them were pushed back a bit by his spells, but it was more important that he keep them from looking elsewhere.

 

Pain slammed into his upper arm as a curse broke through his shield; Harry cried out as he felt the bone shatter but knew he couldn’t afford to falter; he snatched up his wand with his other hand and kept shooting off spells, but the accuracy was drastically reduced; this needed to happen _now_ -

 

“Now!” Malfoy’s voice yelled out.

 

From Senior DA members spread out all around the edges of the village centre, spells jetted toward individually targeted Death Eaters. A few were caught by surprise by the coordinated assault and went down, but the others reacted faster, turning their attention to the new threat. They were no longer facing off against lone students, though.

 

Each Senior had their DA group behind them, pulled back from the grip of panicked chaos into a united whole. Younger students were protected in the centre of each formation, while the more confident older students formed the frontline and perimeter. They worked together, some defending against hostile spells while others attacked, gradually drawing most of the Death Eaters away from Harry.

 

Pain lanced through him with every movement, but Harry kept at it, knowing that he only had to hold on for a little longer. He disarmed one Death Eater and Stunned another, impeded one and tripped up another, shot off a spell at one-

 

-who Disapparated.

 

Harry’s eyes widened, he started to move-

 

A hand materialised around his throat and at the same time his good arm was seized and twisted behind his back, effectively preventing him from using his wand.

 

“Gotcha,” the Death Eater grinned.

 

The hand tightened its grip. Even as he was choking for air Harry knew there was a worse danger; the Death Eater could Disapparate at any moment and drag Harry along with him. He had to break free _right now_ or he was going to be in a world of trouble.

 

“To think,” the Death Eater exhaled, pulling him closer, “that I will be the one to deliver you to the Dark Lord. The honour he will bestow on me for your capture, when all others failed him…”

 

Harry had only one option as far as he could see; he just had to hope the Death Eater would keep talking long enough.

 

“The Boy Who Lived. I don’t know how you’ve evaded us all this time, but it seems your luck has finally run out…”

 

Harry shifted his injured arm tentatively-

 

Pain slashed through him, but though it bubbled up his throat no scream could escape, so he forced himself to keep moving. His hand inched slowly up behind his back, straining to reach his wand.

 

“I know what the Dark Lord is going to do to you, Harry Potter, and I hope he lets me watch...”

 

It was too high, he couldn’t, it hurt-

 

There! His fingers scrabbled over smooth wood and he grasped it tightly. He needed to move quickly, and he needed a spell…

 

Harry tried to make a sound, to cough, anything, but he couldn’t even snatch a breath let alone speak the incantation he needed. _If there were ever a time for me to use non-verbal magic, this is it,_ he thought.

 

With an agonising wrench, Harry yanked his arm around, pointed his wand at the man’s chest and focused all of his mental energy on one word – _RELASHIO!_

Red sparks spewed from the tip of his wand and with a startled yelp the Death Eater let go, stumbling back.  


_“Expelliarmus!” “Petrificus Totalus!” “Incarcerous!”_

 

Simultaneous spells from Ron, Hermione and Malfoy struck the man dead-on; his wand went flying and he hit the ground hard, conjured ropes coiling rapidly around him.

 

“Not today, you bastard,” Malfoy snarled. His wand twitched, and for a moment Harry thought the tightening ropes were going to cut off the Death Eater’s air supply, but when Malfoy glanced at Harry the dark expression on his face eased slightly and he relented.

 

“Thanks,” Harry tried to gasp, but his throat wasn’t cooperating. There was no use trying to ask what was happening, then, so he surveyed the area quickly, taking in the Hogsmeade residents who had at last joined the battle and the rapidly vanishing Death Eaters who must have finally conceded defeat now that the odds were no longer in their favour.

 

Once he was sure that the threat was gone, Harry shifted his attention to the destruction they had caused. Many students were injured and his heart jolted in fear for those who lay unmoving – dead, or merely unconscious, he didn’t know. But it could have been far worse; it could have been a massacre.

 

“Are you okay, Potter?” Malfoy asked.

 

“Fine,” he choked out, but he suspected that he wasn’t convincing anyone with his raspy, barely audible voice. His arm was throbbing sickeningly, too, belying his statement. “Check on the others first,” he told them in as firm a tone as he could manage. When they hesitated, he gestured forcibly with his good arm.

 

Reluctantly, his friends moved away to do as he asked. He was proud to see them coordinating their DA groups in the effort, having them spread out to help the wounded or start on the rebuilding process. To his relief, he saw that ‘Rennervate’ was successfully reawakening many of the fallen victims, though some still required help to stand or were injured badly enough that stretchers had to be conjured to transport them. So far, miraculously, it seemed there were no casualties.

 

“Ellie?” he overheard Neville ask. He was kneeling beside a little third-year Hufflepuff girl who hadn’t woken up yet. “Hermione, can you come and give me a hand?” he called out. “The spell isn’t working.”

 

“Let me have a look; I’m the resident Healer here,” a woman said, hurrying over to him.

 

“Thank you. Her name is Eleanor, but she prefers Ellie,” Neville explained, wringing his hands nervously as the Healer leaned over the girl. “I tried _Rennervate_ , but I’m not very good with spells…”

 

The urgency faded from her movements and she leaned back. “I’m sorry, son.”

 

Harry’s heart sank.

 

“Oh, no, it’s alright, I’m getting better,” Neville said. “Harry’s teaching me, and I actually Stunned one of the Death Eaters during the fight, can you believe it?”

 

The woman looked up at him with sad eyes and took his hand in hers. “No, dear, that’s not what I meant. Just know that… there’s nothing either one of us could have done for her.”

 

“What-what do you mean?” Neville stammered, looking down at the girl. Absently he gently brushed back a few soft blond curls that lay across her cheek. “She looks fine; she just needs to wake up.”

 

“I’m afraid she’s not going to wake up, dear,” the Healer said softly. “She must have been hit by a Killing Curse. I’m sure she didn’t feel any pain.”

 

Neville stared at her in shock. “But-but she _can’t_ be dead. It’s her birthday next week. Her mum’s going to pick her up for the weekend and take her shopping. She was telling me all about it during the DA meeting yesterday; she’s so excited…” His eyes welled up with tears. “She can’t be gone.”

 

“I’m so sorry.” The woman conjured a white sheet and laid it over the body. “There are others I might still be able to help,” she said quietly. “I need to go. Will you be okay?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Neville said, his voice wavering. As soon as she left, though, he broke down in tears.

 

“Neville,” Harry rasped. He wanted to go over to his friend, to say or do something that could make this better. But he was already too late; Ellie was gone and Neville was grieving. Soon her friends and family would find out, and they would grieve too. Because he was too late to save her.

 

“What a tragic story!” a loud voice exclaimed, not sounding upset in the slightest.

 

It was Rita Skeeter, complete with her tightly curled hair, jewelled spectacles, bright red fingernails and acid green Quick Quote Quill. Her eyes gleamed with the promise of a story and she strode determinedly toward Neville.

 

“Leave him alone!” Harry tried to yell at her, but it came out too quietly for her to hear him, so he darted forward and snagged her sleeve.

 

She spun to him and a grin spread across her face. “Why Harry, what a delightful surprise! You haven’t been seen in public since the incident at the Ministry last year. How _are_ you coping with the loss of your Godfather?”

 

Harry glared at her. “Get lost, Rita.”

 

She tutted. “Poor thing, so choked up with emotion you can barely talk.”

 

“It’s not that,” Harry growled, gesturing curtly to his throat which he was sure bore livid bruises.

 

She peered at his neck, then gasped theatrically. “The Boy Who Lived, nearly strangled to death in desperate battle for Hogsmeade.”

 

At her words, the quill began scribbling busily in her notebook.

 

_Harry Potter barely escaped with life and limb intact after being the target of yet another assault by You Know Who’s ruthless followers. Even with a crushed windpipe and dreadful damage to an arm he may never be able to use again-_

“That’s an exaggeration,” Harry tried to protest, but Rita ignored him.

 

_\- Potter is actually among the more fortunate, for at least he still has his life. Others, such as little Ellie, were not so lucky._

“Hm, what’s her last name?” Rita mused. “I think I need to speak to that boy over there. I’ll be back, Potter.”

 

She moved forward to approach Neville again, but Harry blocked her path and mustered as much vocal strength as he could. “Neville is off limits to you. Leave him alone.”

 

She leaned to look around him. “Neville Longbottom? He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? Even better.”

 

“You’re not going near him,” Harry told her firmly. “Can’t you see he’s upset?”

 

“Of course. That’s what makes him such a good subject!”

 

“Not going to happen.”

 

She narrowed her eyes at him in displeasure, but a moment later she smiled. “Fine. My readers are more interested in _you_ anyway. How does it feel, Harry, knowing that the Death Eaters came for you, but this little girl was killed and countless others were injured in your place?”

 

Harry felt the familiar painful stab of guilt in his gut, but before he could respond or decide not to give her the satisfaction, someone else spoke up.

 

“If Potter hadn’t turned up when he did, many more people could have died, Miss Skeeter. So you can lay off the guilt trip,” Malfoy said coolly, coming to stand beside Harry and levelling his best glare at the reporter.

 

Her calculating gaze shifted between them and her face took on a positively gleeful expression.

 

“Draco Malfoy…” she purred. “How’s dad?”

 

His grey eyes flared with fury at the low blow, but there was no hint of anger in his tone as he said, “Potter requires medical attention, so if you will excuse us.”

 

“How do you think Lucius would feel about your new _relationship_ with Potter?” she persisted.

 

Malfoy didn’t spare her a second glance. “Good day, Miss Skeeter,” he said dismissively. “Come on, Potter. There is a hospital bed with your name on it back at the infirmary.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“I will believe that when I see it.”

 

Rita Skeeter tried to follow them, but Malfoy casually flicked an Impedimenta spell over his shoulder that effectively stopped her in her tracks.

 

“Why do I get the feeling that is going to come back to haunt us?” Harry asked hoarsely as they walked away from the sound of her loud protests.

 

“Stop talking,” Malfoy chided, “you will only make it worse. And ignore Skeeter. She’s not worth it.”

 

Harry knew that the reporter was the least of their worries today, so he decided to take Malfoy’s advice for the moment. He wanted to ask how everyone else was, but Malfoy seemed to read his mind and filled him in on the way back to Hogwarts. Thankfully there had been no other fatalities, though a few students were still in critical condition and had to be taken to St Mungos.

 

“Some of the students are a bit shaken up, but most of them are actually less frightened now that they know they can hold their own against Death Eaters when they work together.”

 

 _If the Death Eaters were really out for a slaughter, it might have been a different story,_ Harry thought, knowing that their true purpose had been to find him. But nevertheless, the students had done well; Harry would let them have their victory, and just make sure he trained them better for a time when the danger they faced was far worse.

 

Of course, he wished that day would never come. But he didn’t put much stock in wishes anymore.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Where is Potter?”

 

None of the assembled Death Eaters dared to answer. Already kneeling in a penitent circle around their Lord, they bowed their heads still lower to the ground, trembling in fear of his wrath.

 

“I thought my instructions were clear. Find Potter and bring him to me. But once again, you have failed in this simple task. Thwarted by _children_!”

 

They cringed.

 

“Every day that Harry Potter lives is a mockery of my power. Every day he lives our enemies grow stronger, prouder and more confident.  Every time you fail to capture him, our enemies _laugh_ at us. So come, tell me your excuses! Why does Harry Potter still live free?”

 

The silence was tense, until one could bear it no longer. “Blame Crabbe and Goyle!” he cried. “Their sons gave us bad information!”

 

Voldemort cast his cold gaze on the two men. “Is this true?”

 

“There was a Hogsmeade trip,” Goyle grunted. “All students above third year are allowed to attend. How was my son to know Potter wouldn’t go?”

 

Voldemort paused, pondering the question. “Potter has grown cautious,” he said quietly. “He would not leave the safety of Hogwarts for such frivolity, and he does not go anywhere alone. What then, is the solution? Harry Potter must die.”

 

“My Lord,” Bellatrix said huskily, stepping forward. With Lucius imprisoned she had taken his place at the Dark Lord’s right hand and did not have to grovel as these others did. “I have a suggestion.”

 

“What is it, Bellatrix?”

 

“Potter’s emotions are his greatest weakness. When he is upset, or grieving, or worried for his friends, he makes foolish decisions. Although it did not work out as we hoped, it cannot be denied that Potter did come running to rescue his precious godfather, and he chased me on his own with no thought to his personal safety after I killed Black.”

 

“Unfortunately, we no longer have Black as leverage against the boy,” Voldemort pointed out. “And no one else close to Potter is as easily accessible.”

 

“Not so, my Lord,” Bellatrix breathed. “And it would be my honour to bring them to you.”

 

ooOOoo


	34. The Daily Prophet

 

Overnight, it seemed, Hogwarts had become a very different place.

 

When Draco had returned to the Slytherin dungeons after the battle of Hogsmeade, he was greeted by a very different atmosphere to the one he was used to. The students were all quiet and subdued, tense even. His appearance actually caused a ripple of relief to wash over the room, although no one would meet his gaze. Draco suspected that he knew the reason; they had all known that something bad was going to happen, but Astoria was the only one who had done anything to stop it. She glanced at him from her position by the fireplace and he offered her a slight nod, but most other eyes were downcast with guilt.

 

The two individuals who were truly culpable, however, had an entirely different reaction. As soon as Crabbe and Goyle caught sight of him their faces drained of colour so fast they almost looked like ghosts. Draco didn’t flatter himself to believe they were afraid of him; he knew full well that they were terrified of their new master and what he would do to them for their failure. Considering that they had tried to betray him to his death, Draco felt no sympathy for their plight; he just smirked at them and brushed past on his way to bed.

 

The strangeness continued the next morning, as Draco escaped the common room without a single slur or hex aimed in his direction.

 

He noticed Aurors stationed in a few of the corridors and at the entrance to the castle; new security measures that were probably a response to parent and public demand, though Draco doubted they would be much use unless the Death Eaters were stupid enough to try to break into the castle with Headmaster Dumbledore still around to defend it.

 

Walking into the Great Hall, Draco saw that many of the students were sitting in their DA groups. Some were chatting animatedly about the moves they had used successfully in the battle and recounting the most exciting parts. Longbottom’s group was quiet, still stunned by the loss of little Ellie; one girl who must have been a close friend of hers, was crying softly into Neville’s shoulder.

 

Potter was, of course, the hero of the hour. In the few moments it took Draco to make his way over he saw four people clap Potter on the back as they passed him, presumably congratulating him, thanking him, inquiring after his health or a combination of the three.

 

Draco was certainly not expecting the same treatment, but when people noticed his arrival they approached him as well.

 

“Good show out there yesterday, Malfoy.”

 

“I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t turned up when you did.”

 

“I saw you take out that Death Eater – you have _got_ to teach me the spell you used at the next DA meeting.”

 

“My brother told me you were the one who healed his broken leg. Thanks, Malfoy.”

 

“You saved my life with that Shield you cast over us. I owe you one.”

 

Draco wasn’t sure how to respond to so much positive attention – some of it from people he had never even really met – so he just nodded and mumbled “No worries” or “Don’t mention it”.

 

It was almost a relief when Granger took the opposite approach, including him in her reprimand of Potter for their ‘reckless’ behaviour as soon as he sat down.

 

“…Professor McGonagall told you both specifically to stay in the castle _because_ something like this could happen, but as soon as you hear that there are Death Eaters in Hogsmeade you come running out into the open, playing _right_ into their hands. Don’t you realise how dangerous that was? I can’t believe you-”

 

“Hermione, you have to admit that we needed their help,” Ron interjected. “It was chaos out there until they turned up.”

 

She deflated a bit, forced to concede the point. “Even so, they shouldn’t have risked their lives like that.”

 

“Granger, take a look around,” Draco suggested. “Everyone’s lives were at risk yesterday, but most of them are okay now. It might have been dangerous for us to go out there, but it was the right decision.”

 

Granger frowned, but didn’t have a chance to continue the argument.

 

“Students, can I please have your attention?”

 

Heads turned toward the front of the Hall where Dumbledore stood wearing dark blue robes and a solemn expression. He waited until all sound and movement had ceased.

 

“As most of you know, we lost one of our own yesterday. Eleanor Meyers was a beloved member of Hufflepuff House, and we shall miss her greatly. I offer my heartfelt condolences to her friends and family, as well as my deepest regrets that this tragedy has occurred. I would like to observe a few moments of silence, in memory of a life stolen too young.”

 

Quiet fell over the Hall, undisturbed even by the Slytherins.

 

 _I’m sorry we did not get there sooner,_ Draco thought. _I’m sorry we could not save you._ But he knew they had done the best they could.

 

“Eleanor will not be forgotten,” Dumbledore said finally, his voice heavy with sadness.

 

Draco remembered a similar speech made by the Headmaster a couple of years ago and glanced at Potter, wondering if he, too, was thinking of Cedric Diggory. Asking would serve no purpose but to reopen old wounds, though, and Dumbledore was still talking.

 

“It is clear that Voldemort and his followers are becoming more active. There was a time when they would not have dared to attack a wizarding village such as Hogsmeade, but they have grown bolder and they are more dangerous than ever.  As many of you will have realised after yesterday, they will not show restraint because you are children. I tell you this not so that you will live in fear, but so you will remain cautious and vigilant at all times.

 

“Rest assured that we, the staff and the Aurors who now stand guard throughout the castle, will do everything in our considerable power to keep you safe. Unfortunately, one action that must be taken, to ensure that there is no repeat of the terrible incident that occurred yesterday, is the cancellation of all future Hogsmeade trips until further notice.”

 

This announcement was met with very little resistance. A few students looked disappointed, but with the attack so fresh in their minds most were relieved by the restriction.

 

“There is no question that we are in difficult times, but do not lose hope for a brighter tomorrow,” Dumbledore continued. “The darkness cannot last forever. In the meantime, I encourage you to keep doing as you did yesterday – working together and protecting each other. I am proud of all of you.”

 

Draco noticed those blue eyes seek Potter out of the crowd and when Dumbledore nodded to him Draco knew he had aimed that last line at his Boy Hero. Obviously _he_ didn’t mind that Potter had risked his life, but then it had always been that way with Dumbledore; he had congratulated and rewarded Potter for facing threats like Quirrell and the Basilisk on his own when by all rights he should have gone to an adult and let them deal with the problem. Looking at the man now, Draco could not shake the feeling that Dumbledore had been trying to mould Potter for his role as the ‘Chosen One’ from the beginning.

 

Dumbledore ended his speech with a few general notices and went back to the staff table to finish his breakfast.

 

Noise levels gradually picked back up as students returned to their conversations. Potter started to explain their latest Horcrux theory to Granger and Weasley, but was interrupted by the arrival of the Owl Post.

 

Draco had grown accustomed to the fact that he was no longer receiving any mail or packages from home, so he was startled when an owl dropped down in front of him and held out its leg. Sure enough, the letter he untied was addressed to him, but not in any handwriting he recognised.

 

“I wonder what-”

 

Another owl took the place of the first, only to be jostled aside by yet another, and these were soon joined by half a dozen more. Next to him, Potter was apparently being inundated by mail as well.

 

“What’s going on?” Draco wondered aloud.

 

“I think I may have an idea,” Granger said, her lips twisted with displeasure as her eyes scanned her copy of the _Daily Prophet._ “That woman has been at it again.”

 

“Skeeter?” Potter guessed, and at Granger’s nod he sighed. “What has she said about me this time?”

 

“Actually, the article is more about Draco than you.”

 

Draco raised his eyebrows. He had spoken to her for all of a minute yesterday, but his _Impedimenta_ must have irritated her even more than he anticipated if she was already writing rubbish about him in the newspaper.

 

He held out a hand. “Let me see.”

 

“You’re not going to like it,” Granger warned, but she passed it to him and Potter leaned in to read over his shoulder.

 

There were two main stories on the front cover. The first was about the Hogsmeade attack, with the heading “Our Children at Risk” and subheading of “The Boy Who Lived, nearly strangled to death in desperate battle for Hogsmeade.”

 

Emblazoned across the middle of the page, though, were the words “Malfoy heir: ‘Friend’ or Foe?”

 

 _Amid fears that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is no longer a safe haven for our children, new concerns have recently arisen that Death Eater sympathisers may be living within the castle’s very walls,_ writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.

_It has long been suspected that You-Know-Who recruits the majority of his followers from among the pure-blood elite, and indeed, the bloodline of convicted Death Eater Lucius Malfoy is as ancient as they come. Before his true loyalties were revealed, Mr Malfoy was a respected member of Britain’s wizarding community and even a trusted advisor to the now-disgraced ex-Minister Cornelius Fudge._

_Mr Malfoy fooled many people. And now, it seems, his son Draco could be doing the same._

_The Malfoy heir is still a resident student at Hogwarts School – in spite of his ancestry, his outspoken views on pureblood supremacy and his history of violence against Harry Potter himself._

_“Malfoy tried to attack Harry on the Hogwarts Express last year,” one student revealed. “Luckily a bunch of us saw what he was trying to do and stopped him.”_

_This was not an isolated incident. “Malfoy has been out to get Harry from the moment they met,” a peer said. “Something weird is going on with them this year, though. They’re acting like friends.”_

_Your Daily Prophet reporter can confirm the existence of this alleged relationship between Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. An eye-witness account from a Ministry Employee reveals that the two were living together during the summer holidays. After the attack in Hogsmeade yesterday, a wounded and traumatised Harry Potter was seen seeking comfort and support from Malfoy, obviously believing that the blond Slytherin would care for him._

_And this, readers, is a true cause for concern._

_James and Lily Potter trusted the wrong person and were betrayed to their deaths. No one wants to see the same fate befall their orphaned son. But what is easier to believe? That Draco Malfoy has turned against his father and has genuinely turned over a new leaf, or that he is setting Harry Potter up for the fall?_

_Given his family history, one would expect Potter to be more cautious, but either he does not realise how dangerous this relationship could be or he does not care._

_“He won’t hear one word against Malfoy,” a concerned friend explains. “He just goes on and on about how much he trusts him.”_

_What is the nature of their relationship?_

_“They’re inseparable. I always see them together. Harry won’t hang out in the Gryffindor Common Room anymore – he’s always off somewhere with Malfoy and he doesn’t come back until curfew.”_

_Reports suggest that Potter is alarmingly dependant on his new ‘friend’. If Malfoy turns out to be a traitor, will Potter’s heart be broken? Or worse, will he lose his life?_

_We can only hope that Potter knows what he is doing and that his faith in this son of a Death Eater will not turn out to be tragically misplaced._

 

Draco looked up from the newspaper to find Granger watching him, obviously worried about his reaction. Scanning the Great Hall with forced nonchalance, he realised that she was not the only person in the school staring at them.

 

The growing pile of letters in front of him had to be public responses to the article, Draco surmised. He was not going to read them, though. He did not care what random strangers thought of him, and decided then and there that he was not going to let this article bother him.

 

“She is insinuating that I am a Death Eater,” he summarised calmly. “It could be worse.”

 

“It _is_ worse,” Potter said bleakly. “She makes it sound like we… like you are I are…”

 

Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw a flurry of movement from the Slytherin table; Pansy Parkinson had leapt up from her seat and was waving a copy of the _Prophet_ in the air. “Potter and Malfoy are _boyfriends_!” she yelled gleefully.

 

With that, the subdued atmosphere around the Slytherins was decimated. Crabbe and Goyle roared with laughter and the other snakes joined in. Moments later they began making obscene gestures and calling out crude remarks.

 

“You let Malfoy _slither in_ to your bed, did you, Potter?”

 

“Who tops?”

  
“No wonder you only dated that Ravenclaw girl for a week!”

 

“Are your knees sore from kneeling, Potter?”

 

Potter’s face was rapidly changing from red to a sickly green. He wasn’t denying the claims or delivering any snappy retorts and Draco knew why.

 

 _Damn you, Dudley,_ Draco cursed silently.

 

“Harry is not gay!” Ginny Weasley said indignantly.

 

“Well I don’t see him dating you,” Pansy sniped back. “Though maybe you’re the reason he changed teams – trying to kiss an ugly hag like you would turn any guy gay permanently!”

 

“At least I don’t look like a pug!”

 

The Great Hall seemed on the verge of descending into outright chaos. Everyone was yelling at everyone else – some defending Potter, some insulting him, some accusing Draco of leading Potter on or plotting to kill him, some claiming they didn’t believe a word of it.

 

The only person who remained unperturbed by the outbreak of hostilities was Luna Lovegood. “There’s an easy way to tell, you know,” she said airily, and somehow although she didn’t seem to raise her voice over the crowd her words could be heard clearly. “If Harry was gay, he would attract all the Truffulohaps in the area, but there are none buzzing around him, see?” She pointed to the space above Potter’s head and people looked despite themselves. Of course, no strange creatures could be seen. “And Draco isn’t gay either. Headmaster Dumbledore is, though; the Truffulohaps really like him.”

 

Even though the whole idea of Truffulohaps was ridiculous, everyone turned to stare at Dumbledore.

 

The old wizard blinked in surprise at the sudden attention, but after a moment he winked at Luna and stood up to address them. “Love is the most powerful force in the universe,” he told them, “and in many ways it is unfathomable. Sometimes you choose love, but often, it is love that chooses you.”

 

“So it’s true?” someone asked.

 

Dumbledore smiled and spread his hands. “Does it matter?”

 

Whispers broke out across the Hall, but when the subject was the Headmaster of Hogwarts – who also happened to be one of the most powerful wizards alive – no one dared to resume calling out homophobic slurs. And with such an unexpected revelation, the controversy over Draco and Potter slipped by the wayside.

 

“Luna Lovegood, you are amazing, you know that?” Potter said, looking at her with a mixture of amusement, gratitude and awe.

 

She just smiled at him.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply.

 

He looked up from his Transfiguration Essay, frowning a little at the unexpected tone she had taken with him. Had he forgotten to dot an ‘i’ or cross a ‘t’ in his writing? She was a stickler about those sorts of things, but really, he was too tired to care right now. “What did I do?”

 

“You were rubbing your scar.”

 

“I was?”

 

“Yes. I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought if your scar was hurting you would tell us, but you have been doing it on and off for the past half an hour.”

 

“I hadn’t noticed,” he sighed. It had been a long day and it felt like this study session in the library had been dragging on for ages.

 

“Do you need to go and see Professor Snape? If You-Know-Who is trying to manipulate you again…”

 

“It’s nothing, Hermione. I just have a headache.”

 

“Do you want a pain-relieving potion?” Malfoy asked. “We brewed some in Potions class yesterday; I think I still have a vial in my bag…”

 

“I’m fine. I just need to get this essay finished. It’s doing my head in.”

 

“Mine too,” Ron moaned. “Can I read yours, Hermione? I won’t copy…”

 

“Sure you won’t,” Hermione said dubiously, but she handed over the three roles of parchment that contained her completed essay and Ron flashed her a grateful smile. She rolled her eyes and returned to her Arithmancy homework, but the corners of her lips curved upward slightly.

 

Now that he was aware of it, Harry’s headache seemed to worsen with every passing minute. He thought he felt his scar twinge a few times, too, but he did not want Hermione to make a fuss and he _really_ did not want to face Occlumency lessons with Snape again, so he didn’t mention it. He just focused on scraping together a passable conclusion for his essay.

 

“I think I’m going to get an early night,” he announced, wiping the nib of his quill clean before packing away all his books and papers.

 

“Good idea; you have been looking tired lately,” Hermione acknowledged. “Sleep well, Harry.”

 

He nodded to her and bid them all goodnight, then slowly made his way up to Gryffindor tower and his dorm room.

 

He felt like he should have been able to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, but the ache in his head was spiking painfully now. He shifted restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position.

 

He was still awake when Ron and the others finally came up to bed, though by that point he had tried sticking his head under the pillow in a futile attempt to block out the relentless pounding of a hammer against his skull. The boys spoke in whispers so they wouldn’t disturb him and it wasn’t long until the sounds of their slow breathing filled the room.

 

Harry tossed and turned helplessly until finally, in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion won out over the pain at last. Unconsciousness swept over him.

 

_A maelstrom of dark, indistinct shapes and indistinguishable sounds swirled around him._

_He strained his eyes, trying to see more clearly. He reached a hand up to adjust his glasses, but the familiar frames were missing. His fingers glided over a nose that was too flat to be his, that was barely an indication of a nose and just had slits for nostrils._

_He froze and tried to retreat, but the presence held him fast now._

_Images coalesced before him._

_“What do you want from us?” a woman whispered._

_Framed by lank blond locks, her horse-like face was stark white and pinched with fear. A cold hand reached out to grasp her chin, tilting it upwards._

_The voice that spoke was high and chilling. “You poor, pathetic Muggle. You cannot even begin to comprehend who I am, can you?”_

_For a few moments her long throat worked without any sound escaping. She finally stammered the words, “You’re V-Voldemort.”_

_He laughed. “So the boy spoke of me. You are right to be afraid, Muggle. You and your family have a great deal of suffering ahead of you.”_

_“Please… please, we have done nothing…”_

_“You gave house room and protection to my enemy.”_

_“We didn’t want to,” she breathed. “They made us. He doesn’t live with us anymore, though, I promise you… You don’t have to do this. Please let us go.”_

_“You are the boy’s family. He was foolish to leave you without protection. You will suffer the consequences.”_

_“Leave us alone; we want no part of this!” a man said desperately. The cold gaze fell on him and he almost lost his nerve, continuing weakly, “Do what you want to the boy. He’s the one you’re really after.”_

_“Yes…” he hissed. “And when he hears your screams, he will come for you. I will have him at last.”_

_The skinny woman swallowed. “What if he doesn’t come?” she whispered._

_The high laugh sounded again. “He will. Now, who wishes to be first?” He rolled the smooth wood of his wand between his fingers, eying the Muggles thoughtfully. His gaze rested on the large boy who shook and trembled like a leaf in the wind. He smiled cruelly. “Beg for your cousin to come and save you,” he suggested. “And make sure you scream loud enough for him to hear you._ Crucio _!”_

 

Harry woke with a start, gasping.

 

“Are you okay, mate?” Ron asked, his head of red hair popping into view.

 

Harry squinted against the light and Ron obligingly handed him his glasses from the bedside table. As he slipped them on and the world came into focus Harry was relieved to feel that his nose was back to its usual size and shape.

 

“Yeah, Ron, I’m fine,” he responded belatedly. “Just had a weird dream.”

 

Except, he knew full well that it wasn’t just a dream. Voldemort had sent him another vision; this time of the Dursleys. But he knew better than to believe that what he had seen was real and he also knew better than to mention it.

 

He looked around the room, noticing the absence of the other three boys. This had to be the first time all year that they had woken before him. “Did I sleep in?”

 

“Almost,” Ron said. “Hermione told me to let you and breakfast is nearly over, but Dumbledore wanted to talk to you before classes start.”

 

Harry groaned, rolling out of bed. “I could have done with a few more hours. Or years. Don’t we have frees this morning anyway?”

 

Ron shrugged. “He said it was important and asked me to come get you. I’ll save you some toast if you want.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Harry quickly pulled on some clothes and followed Ron out of the tower. Before they parted ways in the corridor Harry remembered to ask, “Did he say what the password was?”

 

“Jelly Slugs.”

 

Harry nodded and made his way up to the Headmaster’s office, wondering what the man wanted to discuss with him. He was fairly sure he hadn’t done anything to warrant getting into trouble… unless Dumbledore was omniscient and knew that he had once again failed to prevent Voldemort from accessing his mind. It wouldn’t surprise him. But if it wasn’t that, it was possible that Dumbledore had a new lead on the Horcrux hunt. He had promised to keep Harry informed, so he knew that the Headmaster had been leaving Hogwarts for days at a time to go searching for locations where Voldemort could have hidden pieces of his soul. Progress in that area would be more than welcome.

 

The gargoyle let Harry through to the moving staircase and when he reached the top the door swung open to admit him.

 

“Ah, Harry, there you are,” Dumbledore said. “Come in.”

 

Harry stepped inside, remembering with some discomfort that the last time he’d had a private conversation with Dumbledore in this room had been after Sirius’ death; he had spent most of the time yelling and trying to break apart some of Dumbledore’s more fragile instruments. The damage looked to have been repaired, though. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

 

“Yes. Please take a seat, Harry.” Dumbledore gestured to a chair; Harry noticed with a sinking feeling in his gut that his expression was unusually grave. It wasn’t good news, then.

 

He steeled himself. “What is it, sir?”

 

“I wanted you to hear this from me first, Harry, although I am afraid that the news has already been leaked to the media.”

 

Harry waited, involuntarily running through a list in his mind of all the people he knew outside of Hogwarts who could have died or gone missing. Surely if it were one of the Weasleys Ron and Ginny would have been told first…

 

“I need you to promise me that you won’t do anything rash,” Dumbledore said.

 

Annoyance flared within him; he wasn’t a child and he didn’t appreciate being held in suspense. “Just tell me. Sir.”

 

Dumbledore placed a hand on his arm; Harry had to make a conscious effort to not flinch away. “I’m sorry, Harry. There was an attack late last night and… your aunt, uncle and cousin were all taken.”

 

There was a pause as the news sunk in.

 

“Oh,” Harry said.

 

The dream probably was real after all, then.

 

“It was Bellatrix Lestrange,” Dumbledore continued gently. “Arabella Figg saw what was happening, but by the time she reached help it was too late. They were not killed, though. I am sure they are still alive, so do not give up hope. But I am afraid that Voldemort has them.”

 

It seemed that Dumbledore was waiting for him to say something. “Why now?” Harry asked.

 

“The blood wards were no longer in place to protect them. Normally Voldemort would not bother with specific Muggles, but in your case it seems he has made an exception.”

 

“Oh,” Harry said again. He didn’t know what else to say. His leaving had allowed this to happen.

 

“He is trying to get to you, Harry. He is trying to lure you out by using them as bait.”

 

Harry knew that already; Voldemort had said as much in the dream that wasn’t a dream. “It’s a trap.”

 

Dumbledore nodded sadly. “I’m afraid so. I know this is hard for you, having already lost your parents and your godfather, but you cannot attempt a rescue. It is too dangerous.”

 

Harry had expected him to say as much. “I know.”

 

“I am so very sorry, Harry.”

 

He had heard those words so many times over the course of his life that by now the reply was automatic. “Thank you, sir.”  


“Are you going to be okay? Is there anything you need? I can give you a pass for today’s classes…”

 

Harry stood up. “No, sir, that’s alright. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Are you sure?” Concern shone in those blue eyes.

 

“Yeah. Thank you for telling me, sir.”

 

Dumbledore still looked worried about him, but he let Harry go.

 

 _Voldemort has Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley,_ Harry thought as he walked toward the Great Hall. _And he’s torturing them to get to me._

 

His scar was still prickling. Voldemort was trying to make him watch, but for some reason at the moment Harry had no trouble blocking the visions out of his mind.

 

He entered the Hall, barely noticing when all eyes turned to stare at him and the students began to whisper amongst themselves. He took his usual seat beside Ron and reached for the stack of dry toast that had been left for him.

 

“Harry, I’m so sorry,” Hermione said.

 

He looked at her, frowning slightly, and then noticed the _Daily Prophet_ sitting on the table in front of her.

 

 _“A Tragic Blow: Potter’s Muggle Guardians Abducted,”_ the headline read.

_Tragedy has struck again for the poor boy who was cruelly orphaned as a baby and then lost his beloved godfather in a fight against Death Eaters late last year._

_Since the death of his parents, Harry Potter has been living with his only remaining relatives; his aunt, sister of Lily Potter, his uncle and his cousin. This innocent Muggle family, living peacefully in a quiet neighbourhood, were brutally attacked last night by the infamous Bellatrix Lestrange, escaped convict from Azkaban and murderer of Potter’s godfather Sirius Black.  Unable to defend themselves, Potter’s family were swiftly overwhelmed, Stunned and taken from the scene. Their fate remains unknown, but Bellatrix Lestrange is known and feared for her habit of torturing her victims to insanity._

_How Potter can be expected to cope with this devastating loss…_

 

The rest of the article was folded out of view, but Harry was not interested in reading any further.

 

“I guess everyone knows, then,” he said dully.

 

For the next few minutes Harry was bombarded by sympathy from all sides. Neville was the most distressed and Harry knew it was because of what Bellatrix had done to his parents. “I swear, Harry,” he said, with a fierce passion burning in his eyes, “someday I will find her and make her pay for what she has done to our families. I won’t let her get away with this.”  


Harry thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom, and he thought of Sirius. Neville was right; Bellatrix had to be brought to justice for all the pain and suffering she had caused. Harry would do it himself, but this was Neville’s vendetta just as Voldemort was Harry’s. “Thanks, Neville.”

 

“Harry, please tell me you’re not planning to go after them,” Hermione said worriedly.

 

“I’m not.” And it was true. He wasn’t.

 

“Oh. Well, good.”

 

“Harry, I just heard what happened, are you okay?” Ginny asked. “This is so dreadful…”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’m here for you, mate. You know that, right?”

 

“Thanks, Ron.”

 

Malfoy remained quiet and tight-lipped though, his expression unreadable.

 

Eventually Harry held up a hand to stop the onslaught of questions and comments. “Guys, can we just… not talk about it?” He didn’t want to hear any more condolences or well wishes or advice… He didn’t want to think about this at all. He was tired and his head hurt enough as it was.

 

Ron changed the topic to the upcoming Quidditch game between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, typically, but Harry was grateful for the distraction nonetheless.

 

His friends spent the rest of the day pretending that nothing had happened, but Harry noticed that they kept shooting glances at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He didn’t know what they were expecting him to do – burst into tears? Start yelling and throwing things? Go running off to try to save the Dursleys? Collapse screaming from another vision? He knew they meant well, but their concern was making him feel tense and unsettled. By the time the last class for the day ended Harry was feeling the desperate need to just get away from everyone and everything.

 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Harry lied as his friends started to head for the library. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

 

He feinted in the right direction, but as soon as they were out of sight he wheeled around and made for Gryffindor tower instead, ostensibly to collect homework if anyone asked. He began to relax once he had his Invisibility Clock stashed away in a pocket, but the true relief came when he left the Common Room and was able to throw it over himself and vanish from view.

 

He walked aimlessly, letting his feet lead him where they would. He soon found himself out in the grounds and was drawn to the vast lake that stretched almost as far as he could see. On clear, windless days the surface of the water turned smooth and glassy, almost mirror-like in quality. Today, however, the water was rough and choppy, indicative of a brewing storm.

 

Harry didn’t mind the cold, but the wind caused the Cloak to flap wildly about his legs so he pulled it off. No one was around to see him anyway.

 

He stood at the edge, gazing out blankly at the tumultuous lake that seemed an apt metaphor for the emotions roiling within him.

 

Time passed. How much, he wasn’t sure, but the clouds darkened overhead and a cold rain began to fall. At some point his legs grew tired, so he sat down with his back against a tree, but otherwise he barely moved. With the rain soaking through to his skin and the cold seeping into his bones, he could almost have been an ice sculpture.

 

“I don’t think blue is your best colour, Harry.”

 

The gentle voice broke through his reverie; Harry blinked and looked up.

 

Luna stood there, barefoot as usual, toes squelching in the wet grass.

 

“Blue?” Harry asked disingenuously.

 

She sat down next to him, apparently unbothered by the mud puddle that admittedly couldn’t get her much more drenched than she already was.

 

“Your skin,” she said. “It’s turning blue from the cold.”

 

He glanced down at his discoloured hands with an odd feeling of detachment. “Oh.”

 

“Do you mind if I try out a new spell I’ve been practicing?” she asked. “I’m afraid fingers and toes will begin falling off in a minute, and I think we would look very strange without them.”

 

“Sure.”

 

She didn’t speak the incantation out loud, but with a flick of her wand the spell came into effect almost immediately. A large bubble of warm air formed around them, blocking out the rain. As the warmth enveloped him Harry’s body began to shiver, as if only now realising how low his temperature had dropped.

 

“That’s better,” Luna said cheerfully.

 

“Why didn’t you just drag me back inside?” Harry asked. “That’s what most people would have done.”

 

“You’re not ready to go back in, though, are you?” she returned, casually wringing some of the water out of her hair.

 

“No,” Harry admitted. “But you don’t have to stay here with me.”

 

“I like the view,” she said. “Besides, my father says that the water glimpies like this weather the best and I’d really like to see one. They are blue and silver, with thin flexible bodies about the size of your palm. They like to leap about in the waves, but when they are tired they float just under the surface. It’s easy to mistake them for moonlight reflecting off ripples in the water.”

 

Harry smiled a little. “They sound pretty.”

 

“Dad said that when there is a whole school of them swimming together it can look like liquid diamonds.”

 

For a while they sat in companionable silence, looking out across the water.

 

“Were you out here looking for me?” Harry asked finally.

 

She nodded. “Hermione, Ron and Draco were searching everywhere for you. When you didn’t turn up for dinner I offered to help them look.”

 

He felt a twinge of guilt. “You didn’t have to. I’m sorry I made you come out in this weather. You got wet.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mind. Dad says rain is much better for you than a shower and I’m drying off now.”

 

“It’s a good spell,” Harry said.

 

“Yes, it’s quite handy, isn’t it?”

 

He nodded and returned to his contemplation of the lake, admiring the way each droplet of rain made a tiny splash as it fell, almost like a last act of defiant individuality before it was lost in the greater body of water.

 

After a time, Luna turned to look at him. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

 

He was surprised by the question. “Didn’t you read the _Prophet_ this morning _?_ ” The abduction of the Dursleys was all anyone in the school had seemed to talk about since they heard the news.

 

“Yes, I know about your relatives. But that isn’t really what is upsetting you.”

 

Harry had forgotten how remarkably perceptive Luna could be sometimes. He looked away from her, ashamed by the truth.

 

“I’m a terrible person,” he confessed quietly. The realisation had been gnawing at him from the moment he woke.

 

“I don’t think you are,” Luna said. “Why would you say that?”

 

“The Dursleys are the last living family I have,” he told her. “They took me in when my parents died. They raised me. They gave me food and clothes and a roof over my head. They’re the reason I was safe from Death Eaters as I was growing up…”

 

He fell silent and Luna didn’t push him, waiting patiently until he was ready to get to the root of the issue that was bothering him.

 

“Voldemort has them now,” he eventually continued. “He took them because they’re my family and he is probably torturing them. He expects me to come running to save them. Dumbledore, Rita Skeeter, the general public, Neville, Hermione… everyone expects me to be angry and upset, and to do something reckless and stupid.”

 

“But?” she prompted.

 

What would she think of him when she found out? He would rather stay silent than admit that he was a monster. But keeping this to himself was what had driven him out here – alone and isolated and nearly drowning in the heaviest rainstorm Hogwarts had seen in months – in the first place. If he didn’t tell someone it would consume him.

 

“But you’re right,” he said heavily. “I’m not upset. Voldemort has my relatives and I don’t care. I don’t want to risk my life to rescue them. Last night Voldemort showed me that he was hurting my cousin. And I felt nothing. Not sympathy, not grief, not even guilt. I don’t care and it’s killing me, because I know I should.”

 

He wanted the freezing rain back. He wanted someone to beat him until he bled. He wanted to be punished for feeling this way, as though the pain could make him human again.

 

“I’m sure you have a reason,” Luna said. She didn’t seem horrified or disgusted; she was giving him the benefit of the doubt, though he wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve it.

 

“Would any reason be good enough?” he asked. “They’re my family. I’m supposed to love them no matter what, even if…”

 

 _Even if they never loved me,_ he finished silently, unable to say the words out loud. It hurt. Even after a lifetime, it still hurt.

 

“They weren’t very nice to you, were they?” Luna said sadly.

 

Harry gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s an understatement.”

 

She waited, observing him patiently with gentle grey eyes. There was no judgement there, just a willingness to listen if he wanted to talk.

 

He never made the conscious decision to tell her, but before he knew it the words had wandered out of his mouth, almost of their own accord. “They abused me.”

 

Saying the words out loud for the first time was a shock to his system and it opened the floodgates. He found himself spilling the whole story (bar what Dudley had done to him), from the first time Uncle Vernon had locked him in the cupboard under the stairs and left him there for two days to the severe head injury that would have killed him if Malfoy and Madam Pomfrey had not used their magic to save his life.

 

The retelling was painful, like draining poison from a wound, and when he ran out of words he felt that he had reached the limit of his physical and emotional endurance. But it also felt as though some of the weight had been lifted from him.

 

Luna had listened quietly without interrupting and he didn’t really know how she was reacting to everything he had revealed about his home life. Had he been selfish to burden her with all of this? Did she think he shouldn’t be abandoning the Dursleys, regardless of what they had done to him? Did she feel that they deserved forgiveness and mercy from him?

 

“You’re not a terrible person, Harry,” Luna said simply. “I would feel the same, if it were me.”

 

He blinked, a mixture of confusion and relief washing over him. “You… you don’t think I’m cold or heartless?”

 

She shook her head. “No. You just save your love for the people in your life who deserve it.”

 

Warmth filled him, and it wasn’t just from Luna’s ongoing spell. “Thank you, Luna. You don’t know how much I needed this.”

 

She smiled serenely, which made Harry think that maybe she did know after all. “Come on, Harry, let’s go back inside. It’s getting late.” She reached out and took his hand, pulling him to his feet.

 

A flick of her wand coaxed the spell to follow them as they walked so they wouldn’t get wet. It wasn’t until they passed through the doors of the castle and she let go that Harry realised their fingers had been intertwined the whole way back.

 

“There you are!” Hermione exclaimed, spotting them as she, Ron and Malfoy rounded the corner. “We’ve been worried sick!”

 

“Harry, don’t _do_ that to us!” Ron complained. “We had no idea where you had gone.”

 

“Sorry. I just needed a little space.”

 

“Potter…” Malfoy’s voice was nearly a growl. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

 

Harry swallowed nervously but stepped to the side, letting Malfoy corner him. The blond kept his voice low, but the tone he used was fierce. “This had better not have been about the Dursleys. Those miserable, worthless, no good, poor approximations of human beings are getting exactly what they deserve for the way they treated you. I don’t care if they are related to you; those barbarians are not worthy of even a minute of your concern. I won’t have you forgiving and forgetting their appalling actions just because the ignorant imbeciles of the wizarding world think you should be upset that they’ve been captured. Good riddance is all I can say, and if you even think of going after them-”

 

Somewhat exasperated, Harry cut in, “Malfoy, will you let me get a word in edgewise here?”

 

Malfoy glared, but put his rant on pause.

 

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Harry assured him. “I remember all too well what they did to me, and inasmuch as I know that no one deserves to be tortured by Voldemort-” (Malfoy scoffed at that) “-I can’t find it within myself to care what happens to them.  I’m not going to have a breakdown and I’m not planning a rescue mission. I really did just need some space and time alone to think.”

 

Malfoy frowned. “So you’re okay?”

 

“Yes.” _Thanks to Luna._

 

Malfoy eyed him with a calculating gaze for a few moments longer, as though judging the validity of his statement. What he saw must have satisfied him, because he finally relented. “Okay, then.”

 

Luna seemed to have appeased Ron and Hermione, because although Hermione tutted about his damp clothing and threatened to use a Sticking Hex on his behind to glue him to the chair in front of the fireplace in the Common Room until he was bone dry, neither of them asked how he was or questioned what he had been doing.

 

“I’ll see you guys around,” Luna said, giving a little wave. “Goodnight, Harry.” She smiled at him and his stomach gave a funny jolt that was not at all unpleasant.

 

“Goodnight,” he replied. “And thanks.”

 

Harry watched as Luna skipped away down the hall humming absently to herself, remembering the feel of her soft hand in his. He recalled belatedly that he usually didn’t like people touching him, but at the time the thought had not even crossed his mind.

 

There was something special about that girl.

 

Hermione was looking at him oddly again. “Harry? Did I see you two holding hands before?”

 

Harry snapped out of a daze. “Huh? What?”

 

She shook her head, smiling bemusedly. “Never mind.”

 

ooOOoo

 

Meanwhile, a beetle with curled antennas and strange markings around its eyes struggled through the rain, flying across the grounds and over the gate. Once it was well clear of Hogwarts castle the beetle landed, and a moment later a woman with tightly curled hair and rhinestone-studded spectacles stood in its place.

 

She glanced back in the direction she’d come, eyes gleaming with excitement. It was moments like this that filled her with a renewed passion for journalism; the chance to write a front-page story that would shake the very foundations of the wizarding world.

 

No one would be forgetting the name Rita Skeeter any time soon.

 

ooOOoo


	35. Out of the Cupboard

 

“Harry, I’m freaking out.”

 

Harry had spent the past ten minutes watching Ron pace back and forth in the Quidditch changing rooms as he worked himself into an agitated frenzy. “Yes, Ron, I can see that.”

 

The morning had dawned bright and clear for the first Quidditch match of the season, not that Ron was in any mood to appreciate the fine weather that would make for excellent flying conditions. He had dragged Harry out of bed an hour earlier than he needed to, already well on his way to panicking, and although Dobby eagerly provided them with an early breakfast Ron had barely eaten two bites. His nerves had clearly returned with a vengeance, along with his fears that he was a terrible Keeper and an even worse captain.

 

“We’re going to lose!” Ron exclaimed. He was going to wear a hole in the floor at this rate. “I’m not going to block a single goal, and we’re gonna lose, and everyone is gonna blame me, and the whole team will hate me, and I’ll have to resign and-”

 

“So you must think I’m a dreadful Seeker, then,” Harry interrupted.

 

Ron froze and gaped at him. “That’s not what I-”

 

“And Ginny, you must think she is incapable of scoring any goals; Katie, too.”

 

“Why would you-”

 

“Well you obviously think that you’re a one-man team if you reckon the whole game is riding on you, even though there are six other people – handpicked by you for their skill, I might add – who are supposed to be going out on that field with you. Don’t you think we’re good enough?”

 

“Of-of course I do, I just don’t think I-”

 

“Ron, you’re a good Keeper, and you’re a good captain. And besides all of that, you have a solid team that you have spent ages training. We’ll be fine.”

 

“We’ll be fine,” Ron echoed, nodding his head, though there was still a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

 

Thankfully he calmed down enough before the rest of the team turned up to give a decent pep talk and he didn’t look too nauseous as they all filed out onto the pitch.

 

As he mounted his broom, Harry spotted more than one insulting sign board amongst the Slytherin crowd aimed at either himself or Ron. That was to be expected though and he paid them no heed, hoping Ron would do the same. Besides, the sign that Hermione had charmed to flash “WEASLEY FOR THE WIN” in bright red and gold was the largest of them all. Ron grinned when he saw it and he shook Captain Davis’ hand with renewed confidence.

 

Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Harry kicked off from the ground hard, jettisoning into the sky. For a few moments he was lost in his own world, revelling in the feeling of weightlessness, of the wind slipping past him, of having left all his cares and worries on the ground far below.

 

“-and it is Gryffindor with the Quaffle – neat pass from Bell to the stunningly beautiful Ginny Weasley -”

 

“Dean!” McGonagall snapped, and Harry looked down to see that Dean Thomas was indeed commentating for this match.

 

“Sorry, Prof- ooh, close call there from a Bludger, careful Ginny! Quaffle back to Bell who takes it in for a goal – stolen by Bradley, pass to Chambers – Ravenclaw Chasers racing up to the goals – this will be the first test for Keeper Ron Weasley – will the nerves get to him? – Chambers shoots – _nice_ save, Ron!”

 

A cheer went up from the Gryffindor supporters while the Ravenclaws groaned with disappointment.

 

“-and Ginny’s in possession of the Quaffle – that’s my girl! Speeding across the pitch, nice dodge, she lines up her shot and – GOAL for Gryffindor!”

 

The supporters roared their approval.

 

“-Ravenclaw has the Quaffle – still no sign yet of the Golden Snitch…”

 

Cho Chang pulled up a few feet ahead of Harry, offering a quick smile. “Nice to see you up here again!”

 

Harry acknowledged her words with a raised hand, but he didn’t let himself get distracted, keeping a careful eye out for the Snitch.

 

“-another save by Weasley; he’s got great game today-”

 

Harry grinned, flashing his friend a quick thumbs up when Cho suddenly shot past him. Harry urged his broom into hot pursuit, swinging out to the side a bit so he could see the little gold ball she was chasing. It was zipping about erratically but Cho followed with steadfast determination. Harry forced himself to go faster, glanced to the side and abruptly pulled up hard.

 

There was a yelp of surprise from Cho as she jerked back at the last second and a Bludger struck a glancing blow to her arm. Her broom spun out of control for a few moments and Harry dove over her, taking the lead, but within seconds the Snitch had vanished again and he slowed.

 

“You alright?” Harry asked Cho courteously, turning to check on her. She flexed the arm, wincing slightly. “It’s not broken,” she reported.

 

“-doesn’t seem to be hurt,” Dean’s voice echoed out. “That was a well-timed Bludger from new Gryffindor Beater Jimmy Peakes, apparently taking his cue from Captain Weasley, nicely executed – score remains 40-10 to Gryffindor.”

 

Harry moved away from Cho, resuming his search for the Snitch. He thought he saw it glinting out of the corner of his eye once or twice, but it always turned out to be a pair of binoculars belonging to a spectator or a shiny button on someone’s clothes. He circled the pitch, only half listening to the running commentary that told him Gryffindor remained comfortably in the lead.

 

“Harry!” Ron called. Harry looked to him. Ron pointed forward and to the left, but Harry remembered the system they’d set up in practice, and though he feinted in that direction – causing Cho, who had seen the gesture, to speed off that way ahead of him – he quickly pulled a tight loop and shot to the right. Sure enough, the little winged ball of gold was flitting behind an oblivious Ravenclaw Beater. Harry smiled and crouched low over his broom to increase his speed, dropping his height a bit.

 

Cho wheeled around, realising it was a trick, and hurtled towards him, long hair whipping back in the wind. Harry could tell she hadn’t seen it yet and used that to his advantage, sharpening the angle of his descent so she would do the same – he waited, eyes tracking the Beater that he was rapidly approaching from below. He slipped under the boy’s shadow and then _wrenched_ his broom into a steep climb, shooting up past the startled Beater and snatching the Snitch clean out of the air.

 

“HARRY POTTER CAUGHT THE SNITCH!” Dean’s voice yelled out, barely audible over the screaming crowd. “150 points to Gryffindor! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

 

Harry threw his fist into the air, which caused the mass of red and gold to cheer wildly and stamp their feet with approval. He used his knees to guide his broom into a victory loop.

 

“We won!” Ron cried, barrelling towards Harry at a horrendous speed and grabbing him in a rough hug that nearly knocked them both out of the sky. Harry twisted free – banishing the discomfort of physical contact in light of the elation of winning – but thumped Ron on the back and grinned at him. “Yeah we did! Thanks to you.”

 

Ron shook his head, smiling. “Nah. It was a team effort.”

 

The celebrations lasted well into the evening. Harry catching the Snitch wasn’t an altogether uncommon occurrence, so while he received numerous congratulations it was Ron who was the centre of attention for leading his team to a resounding victory.  Harry didn’t mind at all; he was proud of Ron, as well as privately relieved that he was not the one on the receiving end of all those hugs, backslaps, play-tackles and – kisses?

 

Wolf-whistles filled the common room as Lavender Brown pulled Ron down from the chair he stood on to snog him senseless. Harry smirked at the dazed expression that appeared on Ron’s face once the couple parted for air, but then he caught sight of a shell-shocked Hermione and his spirits fell.

 

 _Oh dear,_ he thought.

 

The next morning at breakfast Harry sat between his two best friends feeling distinctly awkward. Lavender was all over Ron while Hermione ate in stony silence, shooting them regular glares over her oatmeal bowl. Harry was grateful when Malfoy turned up, providing a distraction for the otherwise palpable tension at the table.

 

“I should never have taught you that move, Potter,” Malfoy said. He looked displeased, but his grey eyes twinkled.

 

“Well, once I’ve learned it, it’s mine to use. You aided and abetted the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Draco Malfoy, how does it feel?”

 

Malfoy mock-glared at him. “It will be a different story when you’re up against Slytherin.”

 

“Yeah? You reckon I’ll catch the Snitch even faster, do you?”

 

“Oh, you wish…”

 

They bantered back and forth in a way that was so similar to and yet so different from the arguments they used to have as rivals; the words were almost the same, but there was no malice or anger behind them and the atmosphere was friendly. Harry was enjoying himself and barely noticed the Owl Post arrive until Hermione spoke aloud for the first time since Ron and Lavender had snogged.

 

“Oh no!” she gasped.

 

“What?”

 

She was reading the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , a hand pressed tightly over her mouth. Harry leaned over to see the article she was staring at with such horror, but she tucked it up against her body before he could catch so much as a glimpse. “It’s nothing!” she squeaked.

 

“Who died?” Ron asked, pulling away from Lavender with a worried look on his face.

 

“No one.” She sounded more convincing this time.

 

“Is it about me?” Harry guessed shrewdly.

 

“No…”

 

“Hermione.”

 

“You don’t want to know. Please, Harry…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Harry, don’t ask. Just… please, trust me. I need you to laugh really loudly and then stand up and leave.”

 

The noise in the Great Hall was getting louder and louder. Harry could feel hundreds of eyes boring into his back.

 

Hermione pushed his shoulder, glancing around nervously. “Come on, Harry… Just laugh and walk out of here. It will be worse if you don’t. Ron, go with him.”’

 

Despite Lavender’s indignant squeak Ron made to get up, but Harry wasn’t about to leave without finding out what was going on. “Let me see,” he insisted.

 

Hermione wouldn’t cooperate, but Harry was sick of being treated like he was fragile and could break at anything, he was sick of being pushed around by Rita Skeeter and her stupid articles, and he was sick of everyone believing the rubbish that was printed in the media. If lies were being spread about him again, he at least wanted to know what they were.

 

“I’ll find out sooner or later,” he reasoned, but Hermione wouldn’t surrender the paper so he snatched it out of her hands and snapped it open before she could protest.

 

_SECRET OUT OF THE CUPBOARD: HARRY POTTER ABUSED BY MUGGLE RELATIVES._

 

Harry froze. His breath caught in his lungs. His face drained of colour.

 

No.

 

His eyes dragged across the page against his will. They took in the large moving photograph of a familiar cupboard-under-the-stairs; a child’s drawing with the words ‘Harrys Room’ had been stuck to the door, which swung open to reveal his old, dingy cot. He couldn’t read the article with any coherence, but a few words and phrases stood out.

 

_…starved… whipped with a leather strap… broken bones…treated like a house-elf… unloved and unwanted… hated for having magic… Department for the Welfare of Wizarding Children should have been responsible for his placement with a suitable family after he was orphaned but Dumbledore overruled them… physically and emotionally scarred… abuse explains erratic, reckless, self-destructive behaviour… thought to be the saviour of the wizarding world but he could not even save himself…_

“Harry?”

 

He set the paper down on the table very slowly and looked up.

 

Everyone in the Hall was staring at him, even the teachers. The room was silent, waiting for his reaction.

 

Laugh, Hermione had said. He tried, but no sound escaped. Besides, what would be the point? They all knew now. Rita Skeeter had reported every last detail, save one, and there was no use wondering how she had found out.

 

The wizarding world finally knew the truth about the weak, broken orphan boy who had been masquerading as their hero.

 

He had tried to hide it. He had worked so hard for all of his life to keep it a secret. He hated who he was, what the Dursleys had turned him into, but at least at school he had been able to pretend that he wasn’t pathetic and wasn’t a coward. But they knew. They knew…

 

“Harry?”

 

The single word broke him.

 

He turned and fled.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Harry!” Draco yelled.

 

He leaped out of his seat and ran after him, remembering all too well what had happened when Potter found out that Granger and the Weasleys knew. He had freaked out and sprinted out of the house. If Draco’s spell had not stopped him, god knows where he might have ended up.

 

Draco knew this time would be worse. For all their words and assurances that they did not see him any differently, Harry hated that the truth had been revealed to his best friends. And now, with one fell blow, that horrible Skeeter woman had ensured that not only the whole school but the entire wizarding population of Great Britain knew that Potter had been abused. Draco couldn’t even begin to imagine how he was feeling, but he did know that Potter should not be alone right now.

 

The only trouble was that Potter could run damn fast when he wanted to and he was not listening to Draco’s yells for him to stop or slow down. Draco did his best to catch up, but he rounded a corner and Potter was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

 

Draco swore under his breath. Small mercies that Potter hadn’t been heading towards an exit, but Hogwarts castle was still a massive area to search. He doubted he would be able to find him on his own, so he doubled back to gather reinforcements.

 

He bumped into Granger and Ron in one of the corridors running the other way.

 

“I need your help-” he started.

 

“One step ahead of you,” Granger said, giving a triumphant little wave in the air of a piece of old, crumpled parchment that she had clutched in her hand.

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And that is supposed to be useful because…?”

 

“It’s a map of Hogwarts,” she explained.

 

“You don’t know your way around yet?”

 

“It’s not just any map,” Ron corrected. “It’s the _Marauders’_ Map. It was created by four of Hogwarts most infamous troublemakers: Moony-”

 

“Long story short,” Granger interrupted, “Not only does it show the layout of Hogwarts, complete with all the hidden passages, it shows where everyone is as well. See?”

 

Granger held up the map for his perusal and when Draco realised what he was seeing he stared in awe at the little labelled dots that revealed the current location of every student, ghost and teacher within Hogwarts. The majority of people were still crowded into the Great Hall, which made it easy to locate himself, Granger and Ron who stood in comparative seclusion. By the same reasoning, it should also be easy to find… _There_!

 

‘Harry Potter’ was travelling rapidly along the seventh floor corridor.

 

“As much as I would love to know where you got this ingenious device, we should get to Potter before he does something stu- Hey, where did he go?”

 

The dot had vanished.

 

Granger frowned. “That’s never happened before.”

 

“Maybe he Disapparated!” Ron said.

 

“You can’t Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts,” Granger replied exasperatedly.

 

Draco saw that Ron was trying to hide a smile and suspected that not only was this an oft-repeated exchange but that Ron was teasing her. It could have come across as (clumsily) flirtatious if they weren’t all more concerned with finding Potter. But hadn’t Ron spent most of the morning snogging Lavender Brown? Draco shook off the distraction; he had more important things to worry about at the moment.

 

“How come the DADA classroom is not shown on here?” Draco asked, noticing the omission.

 

“You mean the Room of Requirement?”  
  
“Yes. It is supposed to be on the seventh floor, isn’t it?”

 

Granger pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s also known as the Come and Go Room. It isn’t always there, maybe that’s why. Or it could be a part of the Room’s magic- if the person inside doesn’t want to be found, maybe the Room becomes Unplottable.”

 

“Makes sense. So it is a fairly safe bet that Potter is in there, then?”

 

“I think so. But if he is we won’t be able to get to him; the Room won’t let us.”

 

Draco remembered how difficult it had been for the Inquisitorial Squad to break into the Room of Requirement last year during the DA meetings. If Potter did not want anyone following him now, which was a fairly safe assumption, then doing so would be virtually impossible.

 

He sighed. “Pointless as it may be, I am going to go up and give it a try. You both should go back and start working on damage control. The last thing Potter needs is to come out and be bombarded by questions. Make sure the student grape-vine has gossiped itself out before Potter returns.”

 

“We’ll do our best,” Granger promised.

 

“Good luck,” Ron said.

 

 _I’m going to need it,_ Draco thought as the two headed off.

 

He made his way up to the seventh floor and began pacing back and forth with the words _I need to find Harry Potter_ fixed in his mind. When no door materialised after a few minutes, Draco withheld a sigh and changed the phrasing of his request. _I need to find the room where Harry Potter is._ And then when that was ineffective, _I need you to become the same room that Potter is using._ Nothing. He kept trying different combinations, refusing to give up even though he was getting nowhere fast.

 

But not making any progress for half an hour was incredibly frustrating. “This isn’t even _about_ me!” he yelled at the wall. “It’s about Potter; _he_ needs me to find him. So stop being so stubborn and let me in!”

 

Draco did not really expect his outburst to yield any results; when the blank wall slowly began to transform before his eyes he was both surprised and delighted.

 

The smile slipped from his face, though, when he saw the door that greeted him. It was the same door that had been on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , the same door that was located under the stairs of 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging. Which had to mean that the room that lay beyond was not, in fact, a room at all but a small cupboard.

 

While Draco had been staying with the Dursleys, that cupboard had contained Potter’s school things. But the _Daily Prophet_ had insinuated that the cupboard had once served as Potter’s bedroom. It was horrifying to even consider that human beings could find cruelty enough within themselves to relegate a small boy to a _cupboard_ , but Draco knew the Dursleys were capable of far worse so, unfortunately, it was all too easy to believe.

 

Draco worried what it could mean for Potter’s emotional state that the Room of Requirement had turned into the cupboard that could not hold any positive memories for him, but standing out here wondering was certainly not helping. Potter had been left on his own for long enough.

 

Draco reached out a hand and slowly pulled open the door. “Harry?”

 

The inside of the cupboard was tiny, dark and dingy. The sloping ceiling, draped in cobwebs, meant that it would be impossible to stand up straight, creating a cramped and claustrophobic atmosphere. Draco couldn’t help but think of the bed chambers he had grown up with; adjoining his own living area and full en suit was a huge, spacious bedroom with a king-sized bed, walk-in closet and a large window looking out across the extensive grounds of Malfoy Manor. While Draco had been living in luxury, Potter had been forced to live like this.

 

Fury and pity swirled within him, but Draco shoved both emotions aside.

 

“Harry, it’s Draco.”

 

The huddled figure sitting on the dilapidated cot with his head on his knees did not respond.

 

“I’m coming in.”

 

Draco folded his body into the small space, trying to be careful not to make physical contact with Potter which proved to be quite challenging.

 

 _We could do with some more room in here,_ he thought, and accommodatingly the walls expanded out a bit.

 

After a moment of consideration, Draco tugged the door closed so they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone barging in on them.

 

For a long time, they sat in silence broken only by the sound of Potter’s unsteady breathing. Draco wondered if he was crying but, upon reflection, he couldn’t remember ever seeing Potter in tears. Not when he was in pain, not over Sirius Black, not when he had every reason to be upset. Crying was supposed to be cathartic and Draco wasn’t sure that holding it in was entirely healthy. But he could understand Potter wanting to appear strong and unbreakable, even to himself.

 

“What are we doing in here, Harry?” Draco finally asked.

 

The reply was barely audible. “…belong here.”

 

“You know that is not true.”

 

A faint rise and fall of his shoulders. “… might as well be… can’t leave.”

 

“Of course you can. The door is right here.”

 

Without raising it from his knees, Potter shook his head. “…can’t face them. Not after this.”

 

“Who?”

 

“…everyone. They know now.”

 

“They know that the Dursleys are evil,” Draco acknowledged, feeling a hot swoop of satisfaction in his gut at the recollection that they were currently suffering at the Dark Lord’s hands. “But why should that mean you can’t face everyone? It does not have any negative bearing on who _you_ are and it should not affect how people see you.”

 

Potter offered a dry, humourless laugh. “Of course it will.” He finally looked up, pinning Draco with dulled green eyes. “It changed how you see me, didn’t it? The only reason you started being nice to me is because you found out about the abuse and felt _pity_ for the poor little orphan boy.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

Potter’s tone was twisted and bitter. “Isn’t it? We were equals before. You enjoyed bickering with me because you thought I was tough enough to hold my own. But it’s no fun fighting with a weakling like me, so you stopped.”

 

“I started acting decently toward you because you saved my life and because I realised that I had been a misguided prat with all the wrong beliefs and priorities,” Draco argued. “And you are not weak. I think you are the strongest person I have ever met.”

 

“Oh yeah.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Because bolting out of the Great Hall like a frightened rabbit and hiding in here is a sign of strength. Flinching every time someone touches me is a sign of strength. Letting a Muggle treat me like a slave and beat the crap out of me every day I lived with them is _definitely_ a sign of strength.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Draco said firmly.

 

Potter stared at him in disbelief. “You’re mad.”

 

“No, I’m not.” Draco had not understood how Potter could let himself be treated that way for so long, but all of a sudden it had just clicked. “No one can deny how powerful your magic is, or how skilled you are becoming. If you had chosen to fight back against your relatives, you could have made them suffer greatly. You could have made them cower in fear of you.”

 

Potter shifted uncomfortably. “I couldn’t do that.”

 

“No, Harry, you _wouldn’t_ do that. Because you are the better man. You wouldn’t stoop to their level. You wouldn’t hurt them and you wouldn’t risk using your magic to stop them from hurting you because you _know_ you’re not weak and you know how much damage you could inflict. The fact that you held fast to your morals and did not let them drive you to bloody revenge is proof of how strong you really are.”

 

The hostility had faded from Potter’s expression. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

 

“That is because I am.”  


“I don’t think other people will see it that way. How are they supposed to believe I can defeat Voldemort when I couldn’t even stand up to my own uncle?”

 

“Wouldn’t,” Draco corrected. “And what does it matter what they think? When the Dark Lord is gone they will all know you for the hero you are.”

 

“And until then?”

 

“Until then, all that matters is what you believe about yourself. We’ll start with this.” He gestured to their surroundings. “The Dursleys,” his face twisted with disdain at the word, “may have forced you to sleep in the cupboard under their stairs, but you most certainly did not deserve to be treated that way nor should you let their appalling actions make you feel that you ‘belong’ in here. Because you don’t. So why don’t we get out of this horribly cramped space before I get claustrophobic?”

 

Potter sighed. “You know I don’t really want to go back out there.”

 

“I know. But you’re going to, because you know you can handle this. You are strong enough, Harry. Believe it.”

 

“You’re not really giving me a choice in the matter, are you?”

 

Draco smiled. “No.” If Potter had not been ready he wouldn’t force it, but he had settled significantly and as uncomfortable as it would be for him to face all the stares and questions that were sure to come Draco was confident that he would be able to manage now.

 

Potter inhaled deeply, then unfolded his limbs and pushed open the door.

 

ooOOoo


	36. Repercussions

Fourth period classes had already started, which meant the corridors of Hogwarts Castle were mercifully quiet as Harry and Malfoy made their way down from the seventh floor.

 

Despite the pep talk Harry still felt a twisting anxiety in his stomach at the thought of facing his peers, but there was no point prolonging the inevitable and if he skipped any more classes the mountain of homework he would end up with would probably smother him, so he had decided to go to Transfiguration. Unfortunately, with everyone else already inside, he knew his entrance was going to draw every eye in the room.

 

Standing outside the door, Harry took a few deep, steadying breaths, trying to gather the strength that Malfoy seemed sure he had. After a few long moments he straightened his back, stiffened his shoulders and pulled on a blank mask, trying to preserve as much of his dignity as he could.

 

He walked in and silence fell. Malfoy followed behind him, but the blond might as well have been invisible for all the notice he received.

 

“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” Harry said.

 

McGonagall’s expression was pained, warring between guilt and pity. “Mr Potter, if you would like a pass from classes I would be more than happy to-”

 

“That’s not necessary.” He did not meet her concerned gaze, walking with a forced calm past the rows of staring students to take his seat next to Ron.

 

The red-head leaned in. “Harry, are you o-”

 

“I’m fine, Ron.”

 

McGonagall cleared her throat, flicking another uncertain glance at Harry before refocusing on the lesson. “As I was saying, last week we covered the theory behind transmutation – that is, the transference of the physical features of one object onto another. Today we will be attempting to transmute the skin from the melon in front of you to the plastic ball of the same size. Full marks will be given for a seamless appearance…”

 

In an attempt to block out the whispers and ignore the eyes he could feel on him, Harry concentrated especially hard on the set task. It didn’t work as well as he hoped.

 

“…article must be true…why else would he have run out like that…?”

 

“…been acting weird since school started… flinching or freaking out every time someone touches him…”

 

“…always thought he was too skinny…”

 

“…knew something wasn’t right about his family…never talked about them…”

 

“…no wonder he hasn’t tried to rescue his relatives from You-Know-Who…”

 

“…still can’t believe he was abused…”

 

“…wonder why he didn’t fight back…”

  
“…just Muggles, aren’t they…?”

 

“…fifteen years…gotta do something to a person…”

 

“…who’s going to fight You-Know-Who now…?”

 

Harry kept his gaze fixed resolutely on his work, determined to pretend that he couldn’t hear them and act like he didn’t care. It was easier when Ron’s third attempt at the spell resulted in his melon practically exploding; during the five minutes it took to get the bits of melon skin out of his hair and help Ron get his melon back in one piece, Harry was able to completely forget about being the centre of so much unwanted attention.

 

He almost didn’t even hear the knock on the door that heralded the arrival of the last person he wanted to see right now.

 

“My apologies for the interruption, Minerva, but I need to speak with one of your students.”

 

Dumbledore.

 

Harry didn’t bother to hope that the Headmaster was there for someone else and was already half way out of his seat when Dumbledore said his name.

 

“See you guys later,” he muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

 

“Are you okay with this?” Malfoy asked in a low voice.

 

Harry shrugged. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Dumbledore but it wasn’t as though he had any choice in the matter. The secret was out and now he had to deal with the consequences.

 

Once they had left the classroom, Dumbledore said, “I imagine you would prefer to speak in the privacy of my office.”

 

 _Try not at all_ , Harry thought. “Yes, sir.”

 

They walked in uncomfortable silence that was broken only by Dumbledore’s statement of his latest password: Salt water taffy.

 

At the top of the revolving staircase Harry was ushered inside and he was less than thrilled to see that there were three men waiting for them.

 

“You didn’t say we would have company,” Harry said, shooting Dumbledore an accusing look. He did not appreciate being ambushed.

 

“Harry, this is Rufus Scrimgeour, the-”

 

“Minister for Magic,” Harry finished, “I know. And the other two?”

 

“Bernard Hamilton, from the Department for the Welfare of Wizarding Children, and Healer Ernest Whitman, from Saint Mungo’s Hospital.”

 

Harry ignored the respective hands that were held out for him to shake.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“As I am sure you are aware, Mr Potter,” Hamilton began in an official voice, adjusting the monocle he wore and peering down at the stack of parchments in his hand, “an article was published in this morning’s edition of the _Daily Prophet_ that made some very serious claims about the treatment you received from your Muggle relatives whilst in their care.”

 

“I saw it, yeah,” Harry answered evenly.

 

The Healer, Whitman, gave him a searching look and then scribbled something down in his notebook. Harry wasn’t sure what he was doing, but it made him feel uncomfortable.

 

“We need to know what, if any, truth there is to these accusations,” Hamilton said.

 

“None. Can I go?”

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore warned.

 

“Rita Skeeter is a journalist who is notorious for publishing rumour and lies. You’re going to believe her word over mine?”

 

“Of course not,” Hamilton said. “Naturally, upon seeing the article we opened an investigation into the case to gather the facts. Miss Skeeter was… compelled… to reveal her sources of information to us. I believe you were medically examined by a Ministry Healer at your place of residence mid-July?”

 

Harry’s stomach plummeted to his shoes. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have let that woman run the diagnostic charm on him. “We had just been attacked by Death Eaters. Of course I didn’t escape unscathed.”

 

“But you bore wounds that were not inflicted during the battle.” Hamilton flipped through the sheets, reading out random segments. “Untreated cracked ribs, severe bruising, belt lashes on your back, malnourishment… The Healer recognised the patterns of abuse and neglect but, apparently as per your request, she did not report them to us.”

 

“That information was supposed to be confidential. There’s a law.”

 

“It does not apply to underage wizards. The Healer had a moral and legal obligation to report the incident to us. Instead, she sold the information to the media.”

 

“Rest assured, she has been sacked from her position at the Ministry,” Scrimgeour added.

 

 _Yes, that is_ very _reassuring,_ Harry thought sarcastically. The damage was already done; sacking her wasn’t going to change anything. Now, if they were telling him that he was allowed to use a time turner to stop the story from ever coming out, he might feel reassured. No such luck, though.

 

“Miss Skeeter also said she overheard a conversation between you and another student. Apparently you described how you were treated by your relatives in detail?”

 

Harry felt anger bubble up within him. “That conversation was _private_ ,” he snapped. “And Rita Skeeter is supposed to be banned from the grounds and castle of Hogwarts, so she shouldn’t have heard anything!”

 

“Miss Skeeter’s actions notwithstanding, you admit that the conversation took place and that the information gleaned from such was accurate?”

 

“Why does it matter?” Harry hedged. “I don’t live with the Dursleys anymore.”

 

“But they are still your legal guardians.”

 

Harry inhaled sharply. “What?”

 

“You are not yet seventeen and your guardianship has not been transferred to anyone else,” Hamilton pointed out.

 

“I don’t care - I’m never going back to them,” Harry blurted. “You can’t make me.”

 

Hamilton’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t quite smirk, but there was a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. “Well, if they are unsuitable guardians, other arrangements need to be made. But if, as you say, there is no truth to Skeeter’s article, then you will be returning to Privet Drive in the summer.”

 

Harry’s eyes were wide. He didn’t think they could do that – he was sure Dumbledore wouldn’t send him back when there were no blood wards to protect him from Voldemort. But Hamilton sounded serious. And Voldemort or no, Harry knew he wouldn’t survive another summer with the Dursleys. He couldn’t.

 

“There… might be… some truth to the article.”

 

“You were confined to a cupboard as a child?”

 

“Until I was eleven,” he said quietly.

 

“You were underfed and deprived of meals?”

 

“Sometimes...”

 

“You were punished by being struck repeatedly with a belt?”

 

“If my uncle thought my behaviour warranted it.”

 

“And you were physically abused in other ways as well, weren’t you?”

 

Harry looked down at the floor. He hated that word. “Yes.”

 

“Can you elaborate?”

 

“I’d rather not.”

 

“You had broken bones,” Hamilton pressed.

 

He sighed. “My uncle might have… punched and kicked me. Once or twice.”

 

“The article said he nearly killed you before you fled.”

 

Harry was silent, but he couldn’t suppress a wince at the memory. Thankfully he had blacked out halfway through the ordeal, but he could still recall the agony from the first few times his skull had impacted against the floor. It was true; his uncle had almost murdered him. His own blood relative had hated him enough to kill him with his bare hands.

 

“Mr Potter?”

 

His control snapped. “It’s _all_ true, okay? Every word of the whole damn article. My relatives abused me and I probably would have died if Malfoy had not Apparated me out of there in the nick of time. The Dursleys were neglectful on the best days and violent on the worst, and they were all too happy to be rid of me when I left. If by some miracle Voldemort does not kill them, I am sure my aunt and uncle will eagerly sign me over to whoever you think should own me next. Choose whoever you like, I don’t really give a damn. But whatever you do, don’t let Dumbledore pick because he’s the one who placed me with the Dursleys in the first place – _despite_ having prior knowledge that they hate and despise magic and _despite_ suspecting that I would face ‘ten dark and difficult years’ in their so-called ‘care’!”

 

Harry was shaking and his breath was coming in strained gasps, but he realised he should probably stop talking before he made the situation any worse.

 

Dumbledore had tears in his eyes.

 

“Harry… Harry, my dear boy…” He sounded heartbroken. “You must know that I care about you deeply.”

 

Harry just felt sick. When Dumbledore had said something similar at the end of last year, he had wanted to believe it. Sirius was gone; Dumbledore was all he had left. But if the old wizard cared, he had a strange way of showing it. “Do I?”

 

“If I had known about any of this, if you had come to me…”

 

 _Didn’t you know?_ Harry wondered, but he didn’t ask the question out loud because he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer. He had tried to make sure the Headmaster was never made publically aware of how his relatives had treated him because he was afraid of having his suspicions confirmed; afraid that he would find out once and for all that Dumbledore had sent him back to Privet Drive every summer in full knowledge of the abuse that would follow.

 

The old wizard was putting up a decent act in front of these government officials, pretending to have been entirely clueless about the situation, but Harry found it hard to buy ignorance from a man who usually came across as eerily omniscient. It just seemed unlikely that, for fifteen years, Dumbledore had no idea – especially since he probably would have wanted to keep a close eye on the boy he intended to be his primary weapon against Voldemort.

 

He had probably known from the beginning.

 

Harry felt a chill settle deep in his chest as he stared flatly into the falsely emotional wizened old face that looked down on him with such affected concern. Dumbledore had lied about caring. But then, he had lied to Harry about so many other things; what was one more lie?

 

Harry knew what Dumbledore’s priorities were. And since Harry wanted to see Voldemort dead, too, a part of him could understand – and maybe even respect – the cold hearted decisions that Dumbledore had made in regards to his welfare.

 

“Keeping me safe from Voldemort and the Death Eaters was more important,” Harry said. “I’m sorry for snapping, sir, it has just been a bit of a stressful day.” Or week, or month, or year, or life, but what did it matter? “I owe you my life. The situation with the Dursleys was just… unfortunate.”

 

“I wish you had told me.”

 

“Sorry,” he said again. “I thought I could handle it on my own.”

 

“Typical behaviour of an adolescent with trust issues,” Healer Whitman muttered to himself as he continued to scribble down notes. Harry had been trying to ignore him, but supressing his anger toward Dumbledore in order to be civil had allowed this other irritation to rise to the surface.

 

“I’m sorry, what kind of Healer are you?”

 

Whitman blinked at him. “A Mind Healer, of course. You have undergone prolonged trauma at the hands of adults with whom you should have shared a close, safe and trusting relationship. The abuse you suffered has inflicted a great deal of psychological damage but, given time and intensive therapy, we may be able to-”

 

“No.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’m not interested,” Harry reiterated bluntly. “I don’t need therapy, I don’t need a Mind Healer, I don’t need people psycho-analysing me or trying to get inside my head and attempting to ‘fix’ me. I’m sure you and your buddies must have been dying to get your hands on The Boy Who Lived for years now and you probably think this is your chance to go down in history as the psychiatrist – Mind Healer, whatever – who diagnosed Harry Potter as a nutter, but I am not interested in being the prize freak in your trophy case. So thanks, but no thanks.”

 

“Harry,” Dumbledore tried, “There is no shame in admitting you need help…”

 

“I _don’t_ need help. What I need is for everyone to leave me the hell alone!”

 

“Irritability, aggression, mood swings…” Whitman catalogued.

 

“Shut up. You don’t know anything about me.”

 

“You are showing classic symptoms of physical abuse, emotional abuse and neglect. You are not the only child this has happened to, Mr Potter. You’re not alone…”

 

“Yeah? Is there anyone else walking around out there with a scar on their forehead and a fatal destiny hanging over their heads? Anyone else who has had to choose between abuse at home and murder by an insane megalomaniac? Anyone else with the fate of the wizarding world resting on their shoulders? Anyone else forced to live in the public spotlight and be judged by every newspaper-reading gossip-mongering person out there?”

 

Harry knew he was ranting and forced himself to stop. Admittedly, it was hard not to feel victimised and isolated when it was his name that everyone knew, his future that was plotted out by prophecy and his private life that was splayed across the front page of the newspaper. But Ron, Hermione and Malfoy had put a lot of time and effort into helping him realise that they were right there by his side and were not planning on going anywhere.

 

Harry dragged in a deep breath, and when he exhaled he tried to release all his pent up anger with it.

 

“Actually, you know what?” he said, feeling a sense of pride when his voice came out sounding much calmer. “You’re right. I am not alone. I have great friends who have been an incredible support in recent months. I might not be one hundred per cent okay yet,” and he knew he had a long way to go, “but I’m getting there. Right now I think that any ‘professional’ intervention will only do more harm than good. However, if you honestly wish to help, you could start with stopping Rita Skeeter from publishing any more articles about me and making sure that no lingering legal issues force me to go back to Privet Drive.”

 

“I still think-”

 

“I won’t cooperate, Healer Whitman. Go back to St Mungos and tend to the patients who actually want your help.”

 

“Mr Potter-”

 

“If there isn’t anything else, I would like to return to class now.”

 

Before any of them could reply, Harry turned on his heel and left the office.

 

ooOOoo

 

Severus usually sneered at the so-called bravery of Gryffindors. But tonight, watching the way Potter entered the Great Hall with his head held high and his face impassive, Severus had to admit that the boy possessed remarkable courage.

 

In his position, Severus doubted he would have been able to do the same. If his peers and teachers had found out that his father was an abusive drunkard while he was a student at Hogwarts, Severus would have felt far too humiliated to present such a calm façade.  Ironically, James Potter and his friends would have been the worst when it came to giving him hell over it. But then, Lily had known and it was her support that had seen him through the roughest days. More and more, Severus was seeing Lily instead of James in their son and as a result he could only feel a gut-wrenching sympathy for Harry’s current plight.

 

Everyone was staring, whispering. They fell silent and gave him a wide berth as he passed, only to regather in small clumps to talk about him behind his back. As if being the centre of rabid teenage gossip was not bad enough, a large number of his peers were shooting him pitying glances, some even going so far as to offer condolences and misplaced apologies for what he had been though.

 

The Slytherins had opted to take the opposite approach. They sniggered at the sight of him and yelled out snide comments designed to mock and belittle and cut down a boy who, over the years spent living with his relatives, would have already received far more than his fair share of verbal abuse. They called him a coward, a house elf, a punching bag, a whipping boy, a weakling and a disgrace to wizarding kind. They hissed worse insults in voices pitched too low for Severus to hear from the staff table.

 

Earlier, in the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle had taken it a step further, ‘accidentally’ knocking Potter to the ground and ‘tripping’ over him, their feet catching him in the ribs with enough force to cause some nasty bruising. As Potter struggled to his feet they had told him they were just trying to make him “feel at home” and shoved him again before they walked away laughing. Severus had seen it happen but was forced to turn a blind eye, even as his stomach twisted with guilt. Thankfully, the two bullies did not dare to try it again now because Draco was very blatantly pointing his wand in their direction and looked furious enough to use it at the slightest provocation. After hearing what had happened, Severus doubted that Draco, Granger and Weasley would let Potter walk anywhere alone anymore.

 

Maybe this was why Potter was able to cope. He had something Severus never did after he pushed Lily away – friends who actually cared and would stick by him through anything. Even now, impossible as it seemed given the circumstances, Potter was smiling – faintly, but smiling nonetheless – at something Weasley had said. Perhaps, with their help, he would bounce back from this and be okay in the end, but if he did it would be no thanks to Severus. He had failed Lily by failing her son, and that knowledge just added to the guilt that already plagued him. He could only hope that the worst was over since the Dursleys were no longer a part of the boy’s life.

 

He should have known better. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he had felt a familiar burning sensation spread across his left forearm. He was being summoned and he feared that he knew the reason why.

 

Resisting the urge to clasp a hand over the Dark Mark in order to dampen the pain, Severus rose smoothly from his chair and bid his fellow teachers a cordial goodnight. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristically early hour of his retirement, to which Severus responded with a level gaze laden with meaning. Dumbledore nodded his understanding.

 

Severus left the staff table but before he exited the Great Hall he flicked a last glance over his shoulder at the boy. He knew that he was about to become an accessory to whatever the Dark Lord had in store for him next and he knew it could only cause Potter more harm. Despite the fact that Potter did not trust him anyway, it felt like a betrayal.

 

For a fleeting moment, Lily’s green eyes lifted to meet his gaze and Severus froze. All thought and reason fled from his mind, leaving only the irrational urge to take Harry from this place and secret him away to somewhere safe, somewhere far from the Dark Lord and the Dursleys and the wizarding world of Great Britain and the pressure of his destiny; far from anyone and anything that could possibly hurt Lily’s beloved child.

 

But then Potter looked away and sanity returned.

 

Severus glowered and turned around sharply to leave, angry with himself for allowing the slip. His role in this struggle was clear and so was Potter’s. He was the despised spy; Potter was the boy hero. Neither of them had a choice in the matter.

 

He walked from the castle to the Apparation point, checked that his Occlumency shields were still firmly in place, braced himself for the upcoming confrontation and Disapparated.

 

“Ah, Severus. So good of you to join us.”

 

The high, cold voice sent chills down his spine. He could tell that the Dark Lord was displeased, which would inevitably lead to excruciating pain in the near future if Severus was not very careful.

 

He inclined his head. “My lord.”

 

Bare feet took a few graceful steps closer, black cloak whispering across the ground. Severus tensed imperceptibly as long, pale fingers grasped his chin, tilting his head up so he had to look directly into crimson eyes.

 

“I heard some strange news today, Severus,” the Dark Lord began softly. “Actually, I _read_ some strange news. Naturally I was disinclined to believe the validity of the newspaper report, since I have my own reliable source within the very walls of Hogwarts Castle who surely would have informed me of such a monumental truth about The Boy Who Lived to Defy Me.” Red eyes flashed.

 

Severus focused on the shock he had felt when he picked up the _Daily Prophet_ that morning and saw Potter’s secret splashed across the front page for the world to see. Potter had lived for five years in the spotlight without anyone finding out that his relatives were abusive and it had been a fluke that Severus spotted the signs when he encountered Potter during the summer. Since he, a highly skilled Legilimens and an adult survivor of child abuse, had not managed to see through the boy hero mask for so long, Severus had been stunned to see that a reporter had discovered the truth.

Aware of the Dark Lord’s scrutiny, Severus held onto the feelings of surprise and carefully edited out the fact that he had known for a few months; with a skill few possessed, he combined the memory of finding out on his own and the memory of reading the article into a cohesive whole that could pass examination by even the most talented Legilimens. “I did not know that the Muggles had abused the Potter brat until I saw the article this morning, My Lord. I was as surprised by the revelation as everyone else.”

 

Red eyes narrowed. Severus could feel the Dark Lord clawing through his mind, trying to determine if he was lying.

 

“I am sorry for my failure to discover this information before now, my lord.”

 

“But you can confirm that it is true.”

 

Knowledge was power and handing the enemy this kind of weapon was extremely dangerous. But the Dark Lord already knew. Denying it would be pointless.

 

“Yes, my lord. Potter’s reaction to the article alone would leave little room for doubt, but a representative from the Department for the Welfare of Wizarding Children came to the school to speak with Potter, and afterward the Professors were all informed that Potter was indeed abused.”

 

It had been the most uncomfortable staff meeting Severus had ever attended. As soon as Dumbledore confirmed that the abuse had occurred, Hagrid burst into tears. The only thing louder than his guilt-ridden sobs ("I - was - the - one who - who - took 'im to - that house - as a babe - I - I left 'im there, I just left 'im! I didn't know but I shoulda - I shoulda checked on him - he'll never forgive me. _.."_ ) was McGonagall yelling at the Headmaster ("I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU THAT THE DURSLEYS WERE THE WORST SORT OF MUGGLES IMAGINABLE! I WARNED YOU BUT YOU REFUSED TO LISTEN! EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED TO HARRY IS  _ON US!_  YOU MADE US COMPLICIT IN THE ABUSE OF ONE OF OUR  _STUDENTS!_ "). Many of the other professors had been stunned by the revelation. Tonks had been to the house ("I should have seen that something was wrong, but we were too busy worrying about Death Eaters and Dementors... stupid,  _stupid!")._ Trelawney didn't even try to pretend that her All-Seeing Eye had seen this - in fact she profusely denied it. Snape had stayed quiet, but he had shared in their feelings of guilt and secretly he had wondered if all of this was as big of a surprise to Dumbledore as he would have them believe.

 

The Dark Lord appeared intrigued. “What was Potter’s reaction?”

 

“He-”

 

The Dark Lord held up a hand. “No. I want to see it for myself.”

 

Severus swallowed. “Yes, my lord.” He brought the memory to the surface of his mind and allowed the Dark Lord to intrude for the second time in as many minutes.

 

Together they relived Potter snatching the Daily Prophet out of his friend’s hands, the colour draining from his face as he read, the utter devastation in his bearing as he slowly put down the newspaper, his green eyes looking around the Great Hall in fear and horror at all the faces staring back at him, and then the moment when he broke and bolted from the room. Severus let the memory fade as first Draco and then Granger and Weasley chased after him, leaving the Great Hall in an uproar.

 

The Dark Lord’s mouth twitched into a smile. He started to chuckle. And then he laughed, the high-pitched cackle echoing out into the night. From the shadows came the sycophantic laughter of the assembled Death Eaters, who cut off the instant that the Dark Lord did.

 

“Oh, this is too perfect,” he breathed. “The boy wonder, fearless in the face of mortal danger but broken at the hands of a few weak Muggles.”

 

“He’s not broken,” Severus said before he could stop himself. The danger in the glare he received for daring to speak up made him continue hastily, “at least not completely. Not yet.”

 

“He ran out of the Hall.”

 

“But his friends brought him back.”

 

“Friends,” he spat. “The Malfoy traitor among them?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Well, then, if Potter is not yet broken, I shall break him myself. I will push him to the very precipice of insanity and let the world witness his fall. They will drive him from Hogwarts and when he runs I will be waiting for him.”

 

When an appropriate amount of time had passed following this sinister declaration, Severus bowed respectfully. “If there is nothing else I can help you with…”

 

“On the contrary, Severus, I am still very much in need of your services. You no longer provide Occlumency training for Potter, correct?”

 

“Correct,” Severus said, trying not to reveal his sudden dread. He thought the Dark Lord had abandoned this avenue of manipulating Potter.

 

“Good. If the boy approaches you asking for further lessons, you will either deny him or continue your efforts from last year to weaken his resistance.”

 

“Yes, my lord. If I may ask…?”

 

Instead of answering, the Dark Lord turned his gaze on three shivering lumps that had been discarded at the edge of the clearing. Severus let himself look at them directly for the first time and with a flush of rage he recognised the Dursleys.

 

The memories he had stolen from Potter flashed through his mind. Petunia, cold and condescending, sneering and cruel. Vernon, red faced and furious, screaming and violent. Dudley… The name alone caused nausea to roil through his gut in a sympathetic echo to how Potter felt about him. He knew the cousin had done something terrible, but Draco had interrupted his spell before Severus could find out what it was. A part of him was relieved to remain ignorant; what little he had seen was bad enough.

 

Looking at them now, though, these were mere shells of the despicable human beings they once had been. Muggles had even less resilience to the Cruciatus curse than wizards did and it was clear that the Dark Lord had not used it sparingly.

 

He realised the Dark Lord was talking.

 

“…forced Potter to watch as I tortured his family, expecting that he would come to rescue them. When he did not, I thought perhaps Bellatrix had abducted the wrong Muggle family. But I understand now. They tortured him, so he was content to let me torture them in return.”

 

The Dark Lord used his foot to tip Vernon onto his back; the man had lost a dramatic amount of weight, Severus noticed. Vernon’s eyes were wide and terrified yet unseeing, his mouth open in a silent scream.

 

“They were weak and succumbed easily,” the Dark Lord remarked, his lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. “Of course, there is always pleasure to be had in tormenting Muggles and I have enjoyed it thus far, but now that it has come to light that these three dared to abuse a _wizard-_ ” His nostril slits flared with fury at their audacity and his tone turned deadly “-their suffering shall be unparalleled.”

 

“What of Potter?” Severus asked cautiously. Surely the Dark Lord did not feel – _sympathy_ for the boy.

 

“These inferior creatures committed unforgivable crimes against a wizard, it is true. However, Potter has committed unforgivable crimes against _me._ The Muggles shall be punished for what they did to him, but what’s done is done and I will use any advantage handed to me to destroy my foes. I have, at my feet, a wealth of memories to choose from. I will use our connection to ensure that every night in his dreams Potter will watch himself be screamed at by his aunt or beaten bloody by his uncle. I will wear him down until he begins to have waking nightmares. He will not have a moment of peace and it will not take long before he begins to crack under the pressure.”

 

“Your plan sounds… very effective, my lord.”

 

“Oh, it will be. Especially when the support from his so-called ‘friends’ begins to crumble.”

 

“How-”

 

“That is a task for others. I need you, Severus, to begin sifting through the minds of these Muggles and extracting memories that will best suit my purposes.”

 

Severus hid a grimace; it was distasteful job, not the least because it was an invasion of Potter’s privacy and would be more than unpleasant given his own person history with abuse.

 

“And when you return to Hogwarts, I expect you to keep an eye on Potter. I want regular updates and I want to know that he remains as fallible to Legilimency as he was last year.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Do not disappoint me again, Severus. Or next time I will not be so lenient.”

 

 The only warning he had was the lightning-fast movement of the Dark Lord raising his wand.

 

“ _Crucio!”_

 

ooOOoo


	37. Windstorm

“Master Harry Potter sir!”

 

The loud exclamation startled him; he went from resting on the table with his head in his arms to sitting bolt upright and nearly toppled off the bench as he hastily spun to find the source of the noise.

 

“Dobby,” Harry exhaled, catching sight of the little elf. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

 

Bat-like ears wilted. “Dobby is sorry. Dobby didn’t mean to scare Master Harry Potter sir.”

 

He took in a deep breath, willing his heart rate to settle and wishing that he was not so irrationally jumpy all the time. “It’s okay, Dobby, don’t worry about it.”

 

“If Master Harry is sleepy, why is Master Harry not in bed like the other students?” Dobby asked. He looked up at the enchanted ceiling and observed, “The stars is still out.”

 

Harry shrugged. “I wanted to be able to go for a run and have a shower before breakfast.”

 

Bulbous eyes widened. “Master Harry’s hair is already wet! Master Harry must have awoken very, very early!”

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Truth be told, Harry had barely slept for two hours and he was exhausted, but apparently even such a short period spent unconscious was long enough to have nightmares. He had not bothered to try taking any Dreamless Sleep potion – he must have developed an immunity because it had stopped working on him a few weeks ago – and he wasn’t willing to go back to sleep without it.

 

The nightmares were always distressing, of course, and Harry had long since become resigned to them, but last night they had reached a new level of disturbing. He had relived the first time that Uncle Vernon had deliberately broken his arm, but from his uncle’s perspective. He had looked down at his scrawny five-year-old self with loathing and disgust, taking immense pleasure in applying more and more pressure to the limb until he could feel the bone snap. He had felt satisfaction and _pride_ in hearing the boy’s pathetic whimpers. It was as though _he_ was Uncle Vernon, _he_ was the abuser, _he_ was enjoying inflicting pain on a child, and Harry woke up feeling so nauseous that he nearly vomited all over the dorm room floor. Needless to say, it was not an experience he was eager to repeat.

 

Harry wasn’t stupid. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence that his scar was hurting constantly and when he closed his eyes his nightmares consisted of memories that weren’t his own. Voldemort must have seen Rita Skeeter’s article, too. He had changed tactic accordingly – rather than torturing the Dursleys to lure Harry out, Voldemort was using their memories to torment him instead. Harry also knew from past experience that he was useless at learning Occlumency, so it was basically a choice between losing sleep or having Voldemort messing with his head.

 

“Master Harry is going to be tired,” Dobby said.

 

 _No kidding._ “Nah. Sleep is overrated. I’ll be fine.”

 

Dobby looked dubious. “If Master Harry says so…”

 

Harry fought the impulse to yawn and decided it was time to change the topic. “Anyway, er, how have you been, Dobby?”

 

Apparently it was the wrong question to ask. Dobby’s eyes filled with tears. “Master Harry Potter sir is still so nice to Dobby, but Dobby is a bad, bad elf!”

 

“What? No, you’re not.”

 

Dobby started tugging on his ears, a high-pitched whine building in his throat. “Dobby was bad to Master Harry! Dobby destroyed the cake so that Master Harry would have to stay at home, but Dobby didn’t know. Dobby didn’t know!”

 

Harry frowned, taking a little while to catch onto what the elf was talking about. “Dobby, that was years ago, when I first met you. Why would I still be mad about it?”

 

“Master Harry shouldn’t forgive Dobby! Master Harry must have gotten into terrible trouble with his bad relatives and it is Dobby’s fault!”

 

“Oh.” Of course. He should have known that the news would have spread to the house elves as well. Chances were that the centaurs and giants had heard, too. “Don’t feel bad, Dobby. I didn’t get into that much trouble.”

 

Dobby looked up at him sadly. “Master Harry is lying to spare Dobby’s feelings. But the Dursleys is like Dobby’s old master. It is not safe to make them angry, but Dobby made them angry.” He sniffed, tears slipping down his wrinkled face. “They hurt Master Harry for what Dobby did, didn’t they?”

 

“Yes,” Harry admitted. By destroying the dessert, it wasn’t just the dinner party that Dobby had ruined; Uncle Vernon’s all-important business deal had been ruined as well. After all his meticulous planning and hard work, Uncle Vernon was understandably livid. It hadn’t helped that the same incident had revealed the fact that Harry was not allowed to use magic outside of school and therefore couldn’t defend himself. As soon as the Masons had left, Uncle Vernon had given Harry one of the worst beatings of his life before locking him in his room and leaving him there to starve. Looking back, Harry thought he could probably attribute his rapid healing to the newly awakened magic that had coursed through his veins; his ultimate survival, though, was thanks to the Weasley’s rescue team that had come a few weeks later.

 

Dobby wailed and started hitting his head against the edge of the Gryffindor table.

 

“Hey!” Harry caught the little elf and held him fast so he couldn’t hurt himself. “You didn’t know what would happen. You were trying to keep me safe. I don’t blame you.”

 

Dobby stopped struggling, but said sombrely, “Dobby is still sorry. Master Harry set Dobby free so Master Malfoy couldn’t hurt Dobby anymore, but Dobby did not help Master Harry.”

 

Harry cautiously released the elf, wary of another bout of self-inflicted punishment. “It’s okay,” he reiterated. “ _I’m_ okay. Really, I am.”

 

Dobby tilted his head quizzically. “Harry Potter is free now?”

 

“Yeah.” He smiled a little. “It seems we have come full circle. I rescued you from a Malfoy and a Malfoy rescued me.”

 

“Master Draco?”

 

Harry gave a wry chuckle. “I know. It surprised me too. But it turned out that there was a good guy hidden inside Draco all along – hidden well and buried deep down, but there nonetheless.”

 

Dobby nodded, ears flapping. “Dobby knew. When Master Draco was small he would cry if the house elves was punished, but his father said he was weak and said house elves was just vermin. He taught Master Draco to be mean and Master Draco learned the lesson well, but Dobby always remembered that he was good once. And now Master Harry has helped Master Draco to be good again! Master Harry helps so many people!”

 

Harry wasn’t sure that he could claim any credit for Draco’s transformation, but it was gratifying to think that some good had come from how the Dursleys had treated him, like maybe there had been a higher purpose for the pain he had suffered.

 

“Dobby does not care what others is thinking; Dobby knows Master Harry Potter sir will be helping all of the wizarding world soon when he is defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Dobby still believes in Master Harry Potter sir.”

 

 _You might be the only one_ , Harry thought. Aside from Dobby, he doubted many people would be inclined to believe in him anymore and he had Rita’s damn article to thank for that. Fury flashed through him and for a moment he wished that Hermione had kept the beetle animagus trapped in that jar forever. But the feeling soon faded, leaving Harry with nothing but a bone deep weariness.

 

“Thanks, Dobby,” he said quietly. “That means a lot.”

 

The elf smiled at him. “Master Harry is most welcome. And Master Harry should know that Dobby will join the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named if Master Harry calls on him.”

 

“Ah…”

 

Harry was speechless, but the little creature carried on as though he hadn’t just declared that he would risk his life for him if he asked. “Would Master Harry like some breakfast?”

 

“At four in the morning?” Harry really wasn’t hungry, but perhaps having some food in his stomach would help him stay awake. “Sure, why not. Thanks.”

 

Dobby bobbed his head. “Always happy to be of service.” He vanished with a _pop_ , leaving Harry with thoughts that weren’t exactly cheerful, but at least were nowhere in the vicinity of what he had dreamed last night. Small mercies.

 

The reprieve lasted until the rest of the castle began to stir. As the first few students drifted into the Great Hall, Harry reached deep inside himself to muster the strength he needed to face another day. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be until his strength ran out altogether. He resolved not to give up though. Not yet.

 

“Morning, Potter,” Malfoy said, slipping into the seat next to him. The Slytherin was a habitual early riser these days, often one of the first to arrive, which Harry appreciated because it spared him the awkwardness of sitting alone. People stared less when he had company.

 

“Hey, Malfoy. Sleep well?”

 

Malfoy was reaching for the jug of pumpkin juice and Harry obligingly pushed it closer for him. But instead of grasping the handle, Malfoy’s fingers closed around Harry’s wrist.

 

“Better than you did, apparently,” he answered, lifting Harry’s hand for inspection and frowning at the row of fresh teeth marks.

 

Harry’s response was automatic. “I’m fine.”

 

Malfoy gave him a long, searching look, and from his expression Harry knew that he must have deep circles under his eyes that gave away how little sleep he’d had. Malfoy didn’t contest his statement out loud, though; he didn’t have to.

 

After a moment, Malfoy sighed, pulled out his wand and muttered a healing charm over the wounded hand. “I’d rather that wasn’t necessary.”

 

“Force of habit,” Harry said, withdrawing his hand from Malfoy’s slackened grip and tucking it under the table self-consciously.

 

Grey eyes glittered, though Harry could tell that the anger was not directed at him. “I know,” was all he said. Malfoy left the invitation for Harry to talk about the nightmare unspoken, knowing that Harry would take up the implicit offer if he wanted to.

 

An image of bone snapping beneath meaty fists flashed through his mind. He repressed a shudder, deciding that this was something he’d prefer not to share out loud.

 

“So the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin is this weekend,” Harry deflected.

 

Malfoy paused for a long moment, recognising the change in topic for what it was and deliberating over whether he should play along.

 

“Yes, it is,” he answered finally, allowing the nightmare matter to rest for now.

 

Searching for some levity, Harry drew Malfoy into a round of their usual banter. “Is your team ready to lose to us again?”

 

“No, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “We are ready to _sweep the floor_ with you.”

 

Harry laughed. “You can try, but we won’t go down easy.”

 

“I like a challenge.”

 

“So do I. So do me a favour – try to at least put up a _bit_ of a fight before we beat you.”

 

“You won’t. This game is _ours_.”

 

Harry smirked. “We’ll see.”

 

“Bring it on.”

 

ooOOoo

 

When Draco walked out onto the Quidditch pitch on Saturday morning, he was very nearly blown off his feet by the gale-force wind that raged across the grounds.

 

It was an effort to stand firm with his robes whipping wildly around him and broomstick straining to escape his grip, harder to see the stands full of students and the huddled teams with his hair flying into his eyes, and impossible to hear what Madam Hooch was saying with the wind howling in his ears. He knew the drill, though – as always, she wanted a 'nice clean game’. But it was doubtful she was going to get one, if the crushing grip Urquhart, the Slytherin captain, had on Weasley’s hand as he shook it was anything to go by. The weather certainly wasn’t going to help matters.

 

At an unheard shout (and then a better understood gesture) from Madam Hooch, the teams mounted their brooms. Draco stood opposite Potter, and in the moment before the whistle was blown he gave a simple nod, acknowledging that they were rivals in the air but friends off field and wishing him luck. Potter returned it.

 

The Snitch was released, the Quaffle thrown; Potter flashed him a fierce grin and shot into the sky.

 

Draco kicked off hard.

 

Immediately, the wind snatched at him, yanking his broom to the side. He spun with it, slipping into the swirling current and letting it fling him upwards at a dizzying pace. When he was level with Potter he flattened himself against the broom and wrenched free of the whirlwind. In a space of relative calm, he glanced down.

 

The scene below was one of barely controlled chaos. Players were being blown and buffeted in all directions, the wind had control of the Quaffle more often than either of the teams did, Beaters swung their bats wildly at Bludgers that the wind ripped out of reach, and the goal posts swayed alarmingly. Even so, Gryffindor had managed to score once already.

 

Most of the Slytherin players were built like brick houses. In weather like this, their weight should have given them the advantage over Gryffindor’s lighter team. But while they were operating like it was every man for himself, the Gryffindors had a strategist for a captain. When Ron gave a hand signal, his team obeyed.

 

Katie Bell took the point of a flying wedge, holding herself erect to take the brunt of the wind. The Beaters became her wing men, defending the formation and channelling the slipstream. Ginny and the other Chaser formed the tails, tossing the Quaffle between them.

 

The wedge sped across the field toward the goals, pushing through wind resistance and Slytherins alike. At the last moment, the leaders peeled away. One Chaser feinted to the left, Katie Bell faked a throw to the centre, and an explosive throw from Ginny sent the Quaffle shooting through the hoop on the right.

 

The commentator’s yell and the crowd’s roar were drowned by the wind, but the scoreboard flashed: 20-nil.

 

Out of nowhere, a strong gust knocked Draco off balance. He rolled, then scrambled upright, only to see Potter plunge into a steep descent. Draco reacted on instinct, diving after him. He found the wind break from Potter’s passage and caught up quickly. He sat on Potter’s tail, matching his every twist, duck and weave, letting him do all the hard work against the elements.

 

He caught occasional glimpses of the Snitch, but he was more intent on watching the wind patterns. Ahead and to the left, Crabbe was sent into a tailspin. Draco calculated. The Snitch slipped through, Draco dropped his height by a few meters, but the wind slammed into Potter from the side. As Potter careened away Draco shot up and made a grab for the Snitch –

 

-only for Crabbe to knock into him from behind.

 

By the time Draco and Potter had both righted themselves the Snitch was long gone.

 

“Alright?” Potter yelled.

 

Draco rubbed at his shoulder, sure it would bruise and not sure whether Crabbe had ploughed into deliberately or not. “I will be when we win,” he called back.

 

“We’re 30 points ahead.”

 

“Then I better catch the Snitch first.” With that, Draco executed a tight turn and shot off across the pitch.

 

It was fifteen minutes before the Golden Snitch was spotted again. In that time the wind worsened, Potter tricked Draco into a wild hippogriff chase and fell for a similar ruse when Draco retaliated, and Gryffindor scored two more goals, but Slytherin closed the gap with three shots in quick succession. Once, Ron would have shown signs of discouragement – this time he just looked furious and all the more determined.

 

Draco watched as Urquhart barrelled toward the Gryffindor’s goals, lined up another shot with enormous momentum and muscle backing the throw- and Ron blocked it.

 

The sea of red and gold students in the stands erupted; a part of Draco wanted to cheer, too, which was a clear conflict of interest and momentarily threw him for a loop.

 

A flash of gold darted past his ear.

 

Draco stared dumbly for a moment. Then he yelped and lurched into action. The wind was ferocious at this point; his broom was bucking and straining, but Draco poured every ounce of his willpower into the chase. It wasn’t until the Snitch double-backed on him that Draco realised what was missing.

 

He pulled an impossibly tight 180 and saw Potter in the distance, the Snitch between them.

 

For the first time that match, he and Potter had not been neck and neck.

 

Following the Snitch brought Draco closer. Potter had seen it and was trying to propel himself forward, but was struggling against the wind. It held him hostage. He wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Closer, closer. Draco’s gaze was fixed on the golden glitter of the ball that was darting about erratically, but he caught a glimpse of a pale face beneath wild black locks, strained with effort. The Snitch was only a metre ahead now- Potter’s shaking hands were desperately clutching the handle of his Firebolt- It was just a few feet further- Potter’s face was etched with deep lines of fatigue and streaked with sweat- Draco was closing in- Potter’s whole body was trembling- Draco stretched out his hand, he was nearly there- The dark circles under Potter’s eyes were more pronounced than ever- Within inches, now- Green eyes were filled with panic and agony and utter exhaustion- For a second, Draco’s fingertips brushed cool metal-

 

A moment that froze, hanging on a precipice, as Potter lost the battle. His face screwed up with pain. A hand involuntarily released to clap over his lightning bolt scar. Eyes rolled back into his head. His mouth parted in an inaudible scream.

 

Potter’s broom tore free from his grip and was wrenched out from underneath him. The Firebolt spun away, flipped and flung and battered through the sky, reminiscent of a Nimbus Two Thousand that had met a similar fate three years ago.

 

Potter hung motionless, unsupported, sixty feet above the ground.

 

Gravity and the windstorm fought mightily for control.

 

And then he plummeted.

 

If Draco pressed on for two more seconds, victory would be his. The Golden Snitch was within his grasp. He would win his first game against Gryffindor, finally proving himself a Seeker the equal of the famous Harry Potter. He would be the hero of Slytherin, welcomed back with open arms, all past offenses forgotten in the wake of his triumph.

 

But in that moment, the Snitch, the game, the teams, the crowd- everything vanished.

 

There was only the thin figure clad in red and gold, helpless and falling.

 

And there was Draco.

 

A scream ripped from his lungs. “ _HARRY!”_

 

He forced his broom into a dive. He pushed it harder than he ever had, drove it to its highest speed, reached the limits and then recklessly passed them. The stressed wood began to splinter and crack beneath his hands but he pressed on, the wind a deafening roar in his ears, colours flashing past him, a single figure the sole focus of his attention.

 

The ground was close, so close, too close, instincts screamed at him to pull up, his legs tightened around the handle and his hands let go, reaching out- almost, almost-

 

A thud of bodies impacting in mid-air, Draco’s arms engulfing Harry and clutching him tight to his chest, a moment of thrilled elation-

 

And then the realisation that they were about to die.

 

Even as his eyes winced shut and his body braced for the collision that would kill him for sure, Draco’s magic roared awake. It couldn’t, wouldn’t be enough; he didn’t have his wand, there was no time- but there was another source of magic there, close at hand- no, two- one gold and pure, the other fragmented yet nigh indestructible to all but the darkest of magic and beasts- Draco’s magic latched on to the latter and _pulled_ -

 

Draco screamed with effort, Potter screamed with him, and a shield of twisted black and red and green exploded around them.

 

ooOOoo

 

Someone was groaning.

 

Once his sluggish mind caught on to the fact that he was the one making the noise, Draco stopped and focused instead on opening his eyes. It took a long time; his eyelids seemed inordinately heavy. Finally, he blinked, and winced against the bright light. He blinked again. After the fifth attempt to focus, the Hogwarts Infirmary came into view.

 

He was lying in a hospital bed and Madam Pomfrey was standing over him.

 

“This is becoming a habit, Mr Malfoy,” she said.

 

“Ungh?” He frowned a little, not sure that was the word he had intended to say, but somehow the meaning came across anyway.

 

“You saving lives,” she explained. “Mr Potter’s life in particular, it seems.”

 

The memories flooded back to him. Quidditch, the windstorm, Potter’s struggle to stay conscious, plummeting, the ground rushing up to meet them-

 

He tried to sit up, panic flaring through him. “ _Harry_ -”

 

“-is just fine, dear. Thanks to you.” She pressed his shoulders back down to the mattress, gentle but forceful at the same time.

 

“Where-?”

 

She stepped to the side a little, granting him a view of the next bed over.

 

Potter was there, whole and unbroken, not bleeding, chest rising and falling with slow breaths. He was fast asleep.

 

“Alive,” Draco exhaled, feeling suddenly boneless with relief. Getting up was no longer necessary. Or possible.

 

“You both are. And remarkably unharmed, too. Given the circumstances, I’d say it was one of the most miraculous things I have ever witnessed. If you had hit the ground travelling that fast, you both would have been dead on impact.”

 

Draco remembered feeling certain that he was going to die, so it was somewhat surprising to be awake. His body ached all over, but while logic told him that he should at least be suffering from a few broken bones, he actually felt rather intact. “What happened?”

 

“No one really knows for sure. My diagnosis of Mr Potter suggests that he has been suffering from chronic sleep deprivation, getting as little as one or two hours of sleep per night for the last week at least and precious little more than that in the past few months. As a consequence, Mr Potter lost consciousness during the Quidditch game and fell from his broom.”

 

Draco scowled at this news, furious with himself. He had known that Potter suffered from nightmares, had been warned that immunity to Dreamless Sleep Potion could occur with repeated use, and had seen the clear symptoms of exhaustion exhibited in Potter’s appearance and behaviour throughout the past week. But in the wake of Rita Skeeter’s article, Potter had been more determined than ever to try and cope on his own, remaining tight-lipped about the dreams that plagued him and stubbornly clinging to the mantra that he was ‘fine’. Draco had let it go. He shouldn’t have.

 

Now he would be having nightmares of his own. Witnessing Potter’s fall was not something he would be able to forget in a hurry.

 

“You, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey continued, “very heroically dove after him, but only managed to catch up when you were both bare metres from the ground. What happened next…” she shrugged. “That is the mystery.”

 

Draco tried to remember. He thought he could recall his magic awakening and his Sight reaching out to draw on nearby sources of power. But he had only been in physical contact with Potter and the fragment he had Seen… or thought he had Seen… it was not Potter’s core. It was something else, dark and horrifying and frightfully strong. Twisted black and green and red, almost like…

 

But no. His memory had to be playing tricks on him.

 

It must have been his core and Potter’s working together to produce the shield that had saved their lives. They had both displayed the capacity for quite powerful accidental magic during the school holidays, so in the extremity of their situation the two forces must have combined. That had to be it.

 

“What matters is that we are alive and well, right?” Draco asked, not wanting to think any more deeply about it.

 

Madam Pomfrey smiled gently. “Yes, Mr Malfoy. We are all greatly relieved.”

 

“Why is Potter still asleep?”

 

The Healer glanced at the unconscious figure, so small and pale and fragile, lying in the hospital bed. His hair was as unruly as ever, splayed haphazardly across the pillow. The scar on his forehead looked slightly reddened, as though it had been irritated or inflamed. But Potter seemed to be resting peacefully.

 

“I have him under a sleep spell,” she explained. “His body is in dire need of rest and I will not allow him to leave my Infirmary until he has at least _begun_ to catch up on all the hours he has missed.”

 

That was fair, Draco reasoned. As soon as Potter woke he would be trying to talk his way out of there, so the enforced sleep spell was probably for the best.

 

“What about me?”

 

She looked him over with a critical eye. “I would prescribe bed rest, but you have been in here sleeping for twenty-seven hours already and your condition seems stable. If you would like to go out and get some fresh air for a time, that would be permissible. Do not do anything strenuous, though.”

 

“I won’t.” He did think he should fill the others in on what had happened and how Potter was; Granger in particular, with her mother-henning tendencies, was probably worried sick. “You will watch over Potter?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Gingerly, Draco sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. To his relief, his body barely protested the movement aside from giving a few token twinges, so he stood with more confidence. He hesitated before leaving, though, his gaze snagging once more on Potter.

 

He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I…?”

 

“By all means.”

 

He extended a hand and let it settle on Potter’s chest, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then he closed his eyes and reached out with his Sight, confirming for himself that Potter was whole and unharmed.

 

Looking up at Madam Pomfrey, Draco felt a bit sheepish. It was not that he didn’t trust her or her healing abilities, he had just come too close to losing Potter on too many occasions. “Sorry,” he said. “I just- I worry.”

 

She squeezed his shoulder gently, a silent understanding in her eyes. She had been Potter’s Healer since first year, watching him wind up in her Infirmary with alarming regularity; she was probably an expert on worrying about him by now. Draco was still new to the job, but he feared it was going to age him prematurely.

 

He blew out a sigh, knowing that standing here fretting over what could have been was not going to achieve anything.

 

“I’ll be back later,” he said.

 

Conscious of the fact that he was clad in hospital pyjamas, Draco decided that his first stop would be his dorm room to get changed. As he made his way through the castle’s many corridors he happened to glance out of a window and was momentarily startled to see that it was a bright sunny day outside. Given the severity of the wind during the Quidditch match, he had expected dark clouds and torrential rain. But he remembered that it was Sunday afternoon now; the storm that had been building yesterday morning must have passed overnight. Most of the students would probably be outside enjoying the remainder of their weekend, so Draco thought the Slytherin Common room would be deserted.

 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

 

“So the traitor returns.”

 

Draco slowly closed the portrait door behind him, taking the moment to brace himself for the unpleasantness that was sure to come before he turned to face them.

 

“Crabbe, Goyle,” he said evenly. This was the first time in months that he had been unlucky enough to be caught alone with his two ex-cronies; he was usually so careful to evade them, going so far as to change his sleeping habits, ward his bed, avoid spending time in the Slytherin common room and take different routes through the castle every day. That had not prevented Crabbe and Goyle from ambushing him in the corridors at every opportunity, but at least he had managed to avoid a direct confrontation until now.

 

“We’ve been meaning to have a word with you,” Goyle said.

 

“I imagine one word is about all your miniscule brains can handle,” Draco snarked, wondering when insults had become a defence mechanism rather than an expression of his superiority.

 

Crabbe smirked at him. “One’s all we need.”

 

Draco didn’t have the chance to decipher what he meant. There was a blurred motion of a wand – instinctively, Draco’s hand dove for his own but he was wearing a hospital gown and his wand wasn’t on him – his eyes widened in panic – there was a single shout of “ _Crucio_!” –

 

-and then Draco was screaming.

 

He slammed to his knees, skull imploding, lava boiling through his veins, nerve endings ripping apart.

 

After an eternity the pain receded, leaving Draco gasping and shuddering, fingers clawing at the carpet.

 

Crabbe and Goyle towered over him. They were laughing.

 

“-illegal-” Draco choked out.

 

“For now. But there’s gonna be a change in government soon,” Goyle said. “We will be hailed as _heroes_.”

 

“The Dark Lord won’t win,” Draco rasped. “And you will – spend the rest of your – lives – _rotting_ in Azkaban.”

 

Crabbe bent down over him, lip curling into a sneer. “Funny. You don’t look like your side is winning. And neither does Potter. Still in the Infirmary, isn’t he?”

 

“The Dark Lord cannot claim credit for a Quidditch incident.”

 

“So sure about that, are you?”

 

Draco frowned. The Dark Lord didn’t have anything to do with Potter falling unconscious in mid-air; it was fatigue, nothing else. The Dark Lord was miles away – he couldn’t harm Potter from such a distance. But the scene flashed before his mind’s eye; he saw Potter’s clear exhaustion, he saw his face screw up with pain and his hand clap against his forehead – against his _scar_.

 

“What did he do?”

 

Crabbe snorted. “As if we’d tell you.”

 

“Besides, all you need to worry about is what _you’re_ gonna do,” Goyle said.

 

“And what we’re gonna do to you if you don’t do what we want.”

 

“What is that?” Draco asked warily.

 

_“Crucio!”_

 

Pain exploded within him. It was blinding, all encompassing, all consuming; the only thing that was and ever had been, tearing his world to shreds –

 

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Draco found himself curled into the foetal position, tracks of moisture staining his cheeks.

 

“I don’t think that’s what he meant, Crabbe,” Goyle said, amusement colouring his tone.

 

“Don’t care. He won’t forget this in a hurry.”

 

With trembling arms, Draco managed to push himself back up to his knees, but when he attempted to stand his legs crumpled beneath him.

 

“What- what do you want?” Draco asked hoarsely.

 

“That’s easy. Stop helping Potter. Stop hanging around him, stop being his friend and stop saving his life.”  


He knew his immediate response should have been to say ‘No’. But with his body still suffering the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse, Draco had to stop and seriously consider what was being asked of him.

 

Stop helping with the war effort. That meant no hunting for Horcruxes, no fighting Death Eaters, and no outwardly opposing the Dark Lord’s regime. Draco liked to think that he was important, that his allegiance either way could determine the outcome of the war. But really, he was just one under-age wizard with no real significance or power. The Light side could gain victory without his aid, and it _would_ , he truly believed that. He wasn’t needed.

 

Stop hanging around Potter. That meant no early morning breakfasts together in the Great Hall, no study sessions in the library, no DA meetings, no friendly banter, no interesting conversations, no enjoyable company. It was unlikely that the Slytherins would welcome him back with open arms; the best he could hope for was to be ignored and to slip into obscurity. It would be lonely, but _safer_.

 

Stop being Potter’s friend. That meant no calming him down after a nightmare or flashback, no chasing after him when he became overwhelmed and made a break for it, no inspiring him when he felt discouraged, no supporting him when the world stooped to new depths of cruelty, no being his lifeline. Potter had other friends of course, but none of them had been there, none of them had seen what he had. They didn’t _know_ , not like Draco did. Potter was strong, but he had been through so much already and if Draco abandoned him now it would be the betrayal that could break him. He did not want to be responsible for that.

 

But to stop saving Potter’s life… Draco’s mind conjured up images of Potter’s crushed skull bleeding out onto the kitchen floor, Potter being captured and tortured to death, Potter plummeting from the sky and dying on impact–

 

“No.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

Their eyes blazed with menace, but Draco would not be cowed. “I said _no!_ ”

 

The pain struck again.

 

“ _No_ ,” he gasped. “I will not turn my back on my friends, nor will I abandon my principles. And I will certainly not allow Potter to die on my watch. You can do whatever you want to me.”

 

Crabbe’s face darkened into a fierce scowl and he stalked forward to press the tip of his wand directly against Draco’s forehead. “I intend to.”

 

Draco did not have the strength to move, let alone fight what he knew was coming. He wondered if the pain would be enough to drive him mad.

 

Resigned and oddly calm, Draco let his eyes flutter shut.

 

“ _Cru_ -”

 

There was a loud _bang_ behind Draco; the sound of the portrait hole bursting open.

 

The wand jerked away as Crabbe and Goyle quickly backed off.

 

“We didn’t do nothin’,” Goyle grunted, and with those words they were gone.

 

Draco slumped with relief.

 

“Draco? Are you okay?”

 

He recognised that voice. “Astoria,” he said hoarsely. “Nice timing.” He tried to muster the energy to look up at her and offer a smile of thanks, but it was all he could do to keep from keeling over in a dead faint.

 

She knelt beside him and steadied him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I wish I had been here sooner. It looks like they did a real number on you.”

 

“I’m fine,” he lied. His body protested the statement by afflicting him with a sudden bout of nausea that had him vomiting up all the potions Madam Pomfrey must have spelled into his stomach. It left him weak and shaking and he probably would have face-planted into his own mess if Astoria hadn’t been there to support him.

 

“Easy, easy there.” Astoria was rubbing his back in soothing circles, even as she used a quick spell to clean up his sick. That small act of kindness was almost enough to reduce him to tears.

 

“Thank you,” he choked.

 

Astoria squeezed his shoulder gently. “What happened?”

 

“They wanted me to do something for them. They didn’t like my answer.” Draco shivered.

 

“What did they do to you?”

 

“Used a curse on me. Cruciatus,” he answered dully.

 

Astoria froze. “ _What?”_

 

“Don’t like that spell,” Draco mumbled. “Doesn’t… doesn’t feel good.”

 

“They used an _Unforgivable_ on you?”

 

“Don’t think… they’re looking… for my forgiveness…”

 

“Why those – Cruciatus is _illegal_! They could be locked up in Azkaban for that!”

 

Draco shrugged. “Voldemort would just... break them out again… Dementors are on his side…”

 

“You have to report them. They can’t get away with this.”

 

“This is a war. They’re just fighting dirty.” Draco forced himself to stand to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness that made his head swim and stubbornly refusing to let his legs give way beneath him. “But they won’t win.”

 

Astoria cautiously released him, though she looked ready to catch him at a moment’s notice. “What are you going to do?”

 

“I’m going to check that Potter’s okay.” Threats or not, he wasn’t going to turn his back on the truest friend he’d ever had. Those two Neanderthals could not scare him and try as they might they were not going to beat him into submission. “I’m going to help him destroy the Dark Lord, and then I’m going to make sure that Crabbe and Goyle get what’s coming to them.”

 

ooOOoo


	38. Wit Beyond Measure

Harry woke up feeling more rested than he had in months. For one long, luxurious moment, he let himself believe that Voldemort’s mental assault had ceased and he was free of the nightmares at last, but then his scar twinged and he opened his eyes to discover that he was in the Infirmary. Again.

 

“Good morning, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said.

 

“Which morning?” Harry asked shrewdly, shifting to sit upright against the pillows. At least he wasn’t in any pain this time.

 

“Tuesday.”

 

Harry frowned. The last thing he remembered was… a Quidditch match in what had felt like a hurricane. His head had been hurting something fierce, he had been battling against the wind in a vain attempt to reach the Snitch before Malfoy – and then he had been watching a younger version of himself sobbing hysterically as a belt tore his back open. It must have been one of the earliest beatings he had received; it hadn’t taken long for him to learn that crying just made Uncle Vernon angrier.

 

Voldemort’s visions were getting stronger. He hadn’t even been asleep; the force of the vision had knocked him unconscious.

 

“Did we lose the match?”

 

“Both Seekers were knocked out of the game before the Snitch was caught, so technically neither team won.”

 

“Both...? Draco! What happened, is he okay?”

 

“It was a close thing. When you fell he caught you out of the sky, but you both would have hit the ground hard if not for a miraculous bit of magic on his part.”

 

“So he’s okay?”

 

“He’s fine. I released him on Sunday, but you wouldn’t know it – he’s spent most of his free time in here watching over you. He even claimed one of the beds to sleep in; I only just managed to convince him to go and get some breakfast for the two of you. He didn’t want to leave – I don’t think he wants to take the risk of you getting hurt again.”

 

Harry was beginning to lose count of the number of times Malfoy had saved his life but he did know he owed Malfoy more than he could ever repay.

 

“How come I was unconscious for so much longer than he was?”

 

“I think you know the answer to that, Mr Potter. Sleep deprivation is extremely dangerous.”

 

“If I could sleep I would.”

 

Her stern expression faltered a bit. “I know you did not want to speak to a Mind Healer, but if the nightmares are that bad maybe professional help is something you should seriously consider.”

 

“A Mind Healer can’t help me,” Harry said sombrely. When the Dreamless Sleep potion had stopped working he had reached a point of such utter exhaustion that he had actually thought about Healer Whitman’s offer to be his shrink, but ultimately he had come to the conclusion that there was no point. Talking about the traumas he had been through to a complete stranger wouldn’t do anything to stop the dreams. “These aren’t normal nightmares anymore. Voldemort is in my head.” He tapped his scar. “We’re connected, and I’ve already learned the hard way that I’m rubbish at Occlumency. There’s nothing I can do to block him out. This ends when one of us is dead.”

 

“Harry…”

 

“It’s fine. You’ve given me a booster; I’ll survive a little longer. Hopefully long enough to do what needs to be done.”

 

Madam Pomfrey was prevented from saying anything else by the return of Malfoy. He came bearing a large stack of toast which he almost dropped as he came to a sudden halt at the sight of Harry sitting up.

 

“You woke him without me!”

 

Madam Pomfrey hid a smile. “My apologies, Mr Malfoy.” She withdrew from the room, leaving them alone.

 

Malfoy approached the bed, setting the toast on an empty medicine trolley. “Alright, Potter?”

 

“Alright.” As well as could be expected anyway. “Thanks… you know, for saving my life. Again.”

 

There was tension around Malfoy’s eyes even as he smiled. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

Harry frowned. “Are you alright?”

 

Draco shrugged. “Most of Slytherin is mad that I saved an enemy player instead of winning the match, but my reputation was in tatters long before the game. Besides, it’s not like my father is around to be disappointed in me for getting kicked off the team.”

 

“They- what a bunch of tossers!”

 

“It’s fine. I don’t really feel like one of them anymore anyway.” He tried for a half-hearted smirk. “You Gryffindors have corrupted me.”

 

Harry examined his friend’s face, noting the shadows under his eyes and the ghost of some undefined emotion within them. “Are you sure there isn’t something else bothering you?”

 

“I could use a holiday,” Malfoy admitted. He reached for the stack of toast and took one for himself before he held the plate out to Harry. “Want a piece?”

 

It was an evasion; Harry used them enough to recognise one when he heard it, but he played along. “Thanks. It is nearly Christmas break, isn’t it?”

 

Malfoy nodded around his mouthful of toast, then swallowed and said, “Hogwarts Express leaves this weekend.”

 

“I suppose Dumbledore will want us to stay here, where it’s safer.” Harry wasn’t thrilled by the prospect, but at least the majority of the students would be going home for the holidays so the castle would be quieter.

 

“Actually, I think the Weasleys wanted to have us at the Burrow.”

 

A flood of images flashed through his mind; their house in ruins, blood and spells and chaos, screams and grief and Mrs Weasley being rushed off to Saint Mungos for emergency treatment from the nearly-fatal wounds she had received trying to protect him. “No.”

 

“Potter-”

 

“No. No way.”

 

“Let me finish. They wanted to have us at the Burrow but they knew you wouldn’t go for it, so they were hoping they could join us for Christmas at Grimmauld Place instead.”

 

That wasn’t such a terrible idea. The Death Eaters didn’t know the location of the Black Mansion and they couldn’t learn it unless Harry told one of them directly. In that regard, it was probably safer than Hogwarts. Come to think of it, Harry wasn’t sure how Hogwarts could claim to be a safe haven from Death Eaters when Quirrell had walked around for a year with Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head, Wormtail had masqueraded as a rat for three years, Barty Crouch Jr had impersonated a Hogwarts Professor for a year and Crabbe and Goyle were still legally enrolled despite strong indication that they were working for Voldemort.

 

All of a sudden, Harry had a very strong desire to get out of this place.

 

“I’d like that.”

 

Malfoy blinked. “That was easier than I thought it would be. Ron bet me two Chocolate Frogs that it would take me at least ten minutes to talk you into it.”

 

“It’ll be nice to see Mr and Mrs Weasley again.” Hopefully he could replace the strong mental image of Molly’s dreadful injury with one of her smiling and happy as everyone unwrapped their Weasley jumpers on Christmas day.

 

“Yeah it will.” Harry could tell he meant that genuinely, though his wistful expression revealed his unspoken desire to spend the holiday with his own parents instead. “So now we just need to survive the next few days of school.”

 

Harry affected a groan. “How much did I miss yesterday? Do I have an enormous pile of homework waiting for me?”

 

“Don’t worry, Granger took notes for you and I think she might have started writing your Transfiguration essay as well.”

 

Honestly, Harry did not know how he would have made it through the past 5 years of his education without Hermione’s help. He owed a lot to a lot of people, and what truly amazed him was that they never asked anything of him in return. Maybe he’d had a lousy family growing up, but he had been incredibly lucky to make such amazing friends. “Remind me to get her a good Christmas present.”

 

“I have some Diagon Alley ordering catalogues that you can look through if you like.”

 

“Thanks.” Given that shopping in Hogsmeade wasn’t an option anymore, catalogues were definitely the way to go. Harry imagined that the owl postal service would be very busy this holiday season.

 

A thought occurred to him. “What about the DA meeting? Is that still on tonight?” He was nervous about getting up in front of everyone for the first time since the article had come out, but Voldemort was still a threat and the students of Hogwarts still needed to know how to defend themselves against him. “I haven’t planned anything specific-” he had lost an entire weekend after all, “-but seeing as it will be the last one for the term I suppose we could just do a review of everything we have covered so far…”

 

 “Good idea. I know my group could do with some additional practice with counter-curses, and I think Granger said she wanted to go over a few of the offensive spells with hers.”

 

Not for the first time, Harry was glad he had thought to divide the large number of students who had joined the DA into smaller groups. His Seniors had really flourished as leaders and their individual knowledge of the students in their care meant they were able to effectively build on strengths and work on weaknesses so there were no gaps in their learning and no student was left behind.

 

“It’s a plan, then,” he said and took another piece of toast.

 

With the promise of Christmas break on the horizon and a decent chunk of sleep giving him more energy than he’d had in a while, Harry felt significantly lighter. He finished his breakfast, reunited with a very relieved Hermione and Ron, and attended classes that day as though his school life had finally returned to normal. He barely even noticed the way that people were still walking on eggshells around him.

 

The DA meeting that evening brought him sharply back to reality.

 

Harry arrived in the Room of Requirement half an hour early to set up, as usual, and his core team of Seniors were there for the debriefing fifteen minutes before it was due to start.

 

But seven o’clock came and went, and not one other student came through those doors. The huge, cavernous room remained virtually empty.

 

“I’m sure I remembered to put up the notices,” Neville said nervously at half past.

 

“We did say 7pm, didn’t we?” Hermione asked.

 

“Maybe everyone figured it would just be a catch-up session and decided they didn’t need to be here,” Ron suggested.

 

“No,” Harry said flatly. “That is not the reason. It’s because of me. Because they don’t trust me anymore.” _Because they think I’m weak. Broken. Pathetic. Useless. Because they think I’m not good enough to be the Chosen One. Because I let everyone down._

“Harry,” Malfoy said in a low tone of warning, giving him a look that clearly said ‘I know what you are thinking and if you don’t snap out of it right now I will not hesitate to give you yet another lecture about ignoring the opinions of stupid ignorant people’.

 

“It’s their loss, Harry,” Hermione said.

 

“Yeah, well, I just hope we taught them enough.” Harry had made sure to cover as much of the practical Defence content as he could in as short a time as possible, so that in the event of an attack the students would be able to defend themselves. They had learned a lot; maybe something he had taught them would mean the difference between death and survival.

 

“If they aren’t willing to learn from you anymore, there isn’t much else you can do to help them, and that isn’t your fault,” Ginny said.

 

Harry supposed he should feel angry, or betrayed, that the students he had invested so much time in had lost faith in him so easily. But he found he couldn’t just write them off. Their teacher or not, he felt responsible for them and he had made a promise to protect them. Now, it seemed, there was only one option left to him.

 

“I may not be able to teach them how to fight Voldemort anymore,” Harry conceded, “but that won’t stop me from doing it myself. It doesn’t matter if they believe in me or not. I was born to fight him, I _will_ fight him, and I _will_ defeat him.” He would prove that he was more than the abused orphan from Rita Skeeter’s article; he could, and he would, be the hero that they needed him to be.

 

“That’s the spirit, mate!” Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder. Harry flinched a little, but he appreciated the sentiment.

 

“And remember, we’re here to help,” Hermione added.

 

Harry looked around at his friends. Ron, Hermione, Malfoy, Luna, Neville and Ginny – all of them brave, determined and stalwart. He knew they would be with him until the end and he couldn’t imagine a team of people he would rather work with.

 

“Alright, then. Let’s get to it.”

 

The Room of Requirement shifted and morphed around them, shrinking down from the enormous DA training ground to something that looked like a war room out of an action novel. It came complete with seven chairs around a huge mahogany table, a pin board on the wall, a pile of maps, a fully stocked bookcase, large quantities of parchment and quills, and a thermos of hot tea.

 

Harry pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “First things first; we need to deal with these Horcruxes.”

 

Malfoy, Ron, Hermione and Ginny each gave a firm nod, but the other two just looked puzzled.

 

“Ah, this may be a stupid question,” Neville ventured. “But what’s a ‘horcrux’?”

 

Once, Harry would have been inclined to keep the information to himself, both out of fear of putting the others in danger and out of a tendency to try and do everything on his own. But now he didn’t hesitate.

 

“The key to Voldemort’s immortality,” Harry replied. “And our key to defeating him once and for all.”

 

He filled Neville and Luna in on everything they knew and had achieved so far.

 

“...the diary, the ring and the locket have been destroyed. That leaves Nagini, Hufflepuff’s cup, and something of Rowena Ravenclaw’s. We know that Nagini will be with Voldemort. We suspect that one of the others will be hidden somewhere in Hogwarts and that the last will have been entrusted to Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry summarised. “What we need to do now is work out what Ravenclaw’s relic is, think of a way of getting the Horcrux from Bellatrix, and find the place in Hogwarts where the other is hidden. Any ideas?” He looked to Neville and Luna in particular, hoping that having a couple of fresh perspectives would help.

 

“I think You-Know-Who would want the Diadem of Wisdom,” Luna said. “It was Rowena Ravenclaw’s greatest achievement, you know. No one has been able to replicate its power, although my dad is designing one at the moment that might come close. He is planning to use Wrackspurt siphons, a Billywig propeller and a Dirigible Plum to-”

 

“That’s interesting, Luna,” Hermione interrupted, a trace of impatience in her voice. “But the original diadem was lost centuries ago. You-Know-Who must have used something else.”

 

“Things that are lost have a strange way of coming back in the end,” Luna said airily, glancing down at her shoes with a faint smile. “But if anyone knows what happened to it, I’m sure the Grey Lady does.”

 

“Why would a ghost know?” Ron asked.

 

Luna blinked at him. “The diadem was lost centuries ago.”

 

Ron’s expression remained blank, but Hermione’s eyes lit up with comprehension. “So who better to ask than a centuries-old ghost! Do you think the Grey Lady knew Rowena Ravenclaw?”

 

“Of course; why wouldn’t she? Though I don’t think they got along very well. It was hard for her to live in the shadow of such a clever witch, you see, and I think she was rather jealous, but in the end she regretted not being able to say goodbye. I feel the same about my own mother sometimes, so I understand. Maybe that’s why Helena talks to me.”

 

“Hang on – are you saying that the Grey Lady is Helena Ravenclaw?” Hermione exclaimed. When Luna nodded, Hermione continued excitedly, “I can’t believe you found out who she is. Bathilda Bagshot asked for her backstory to record it in _Hogwarts: A History_ , but the Grey Lady wouldn’t tell her. I’ve always thought the book was incomplete without it…”

 

“Maybe she didn’t like the idea of everyone knowing every detail of her private life,” Harry said, wishing he’d had the same chance to say ‘no comment’.

 

Luna placed a gentle hand on his arm, the dreamy look in her eyes fading to something more serious. “I’m sorry about the article, Harry.”

 

“I don’t blame you,” Harry assured her. Even though many of the things he had told her that night by the lake had been directly quoted in the article, he had never for a moment believed that Luna had sold him out to a reporter. He knew she would never do something like that to him, or to anyone for that matter. There had only ever been one explanation.

 

“Rita Skeeter shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on our conversation,” he said. “And even given how things have turned out…” The humiliating reveal in the Great Hall, the pity letters from random members of the public, the official inquiry, Dumbledore’s claims of ignorance, the whispers that followed him, and now the DA meeting no one had turned up for “…I’m glad we talked. It meant a lot to me.”

 

“Me too,” Luna replied softly.

 

Ginny coughed loudly. “If the Grey Lady knows something then you should go talk to her, Luna.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Harry offered.

 

“No,” Ginny said quickly. “I mean, she won’t want a crowd. Luna’s a fellow Ravenclaw – I’m sure she’ll have better luck on her own.”

 

“There _is_ something about Luna that makes people open up to her,” Harry agreed with a fond smile, “so you’re probably right.”

 

“Okay,” Luna said. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

Harry was startled when he heard himself say “I’ll miss you” and was even more startled by the jolt he felt in his stomach when Luna laughed lightly in response. She withdrew her hand from his arm, leaving his skin to tingle in the wake of her touch.

 

“…ry? Harry?”

 

“Hm? What?” Harry shook his head to clear it, realising with a flush of embarrassment that he had been staring absently at the door that Luna had just left through. He must be even more tired than he thought.

 

Ginny was scowling at his lapse in attention, which he thought was probably warranted given the importance of their task, although he couldn’t fathom why Hermione had a smile twitching at her lips or why Ron looked torn between grinning at him and whacking him over the head.

 

“I was saying, Harry, that while Luna talks to the Grey Lady we should think of a strategy for retrieving the Horcrux that Bellatrix has,” Hermione said.

 

“Right.” Harry forced himself to focus. “The first question is: where would she keep it?”

 

“Malfoy, do the Lestranges have a house or manor or something?” Ron asked. “With a secret cellar like yours?”

 

Malfoy frowned a little. “Apparently our cellar is not much of a secret. But yes, the Lestranges had a manor. After their conviction and imprisonment, though, the Ministry raided it thoroughly. If the Horcrux was ever there, it won’t be anymore.”

 

“They must have known there was a risk they would be caught,” Hermione said. “You-Know-Who was gone and the Death Eaters were being rounded up.”

 

“They were not exactly subtle about their loyalties,” Malfoy agreed.

 

Harry glanced at Neville, uncomfortably aware that this could not be a pleasant topic for him, given that the crime that the Lestranges had been arrested for was the torture of his parents. But this discussion was too important to avoid. “So do you think Bellatrix would have hidden the Horcrux elsewhere?” Harry asked.

 

“She probably considers it her most valuable possession,” Malfoy said. “Provided she doesn’t sleep with it, and presuming she wanted to keep it safe, there is one place more secure than almost any other…”

 

“Gringotts,” Harry breathed. He remembered what Hagrid had said about the wizarding bank the very first time he had taken Harry to Diagon Alley: _“Ain’t no safer place. Not one.’Cept perhaps Hogwarts.”_

 

Malfoy nodded. “Exactly.”

 

“My brother Bill said that the goblins won’t take sides in the war, so the Ministry wouldn’t have been able to raid the Lestrange vault even after they were arrested,” Ron added.

 

“So it’s a good bet that the Horcrux is there,” Harry said.

 

“Yeah. But if it is, we have a whole new problem. Gringotts has a reputation for being the most secure bank in the world for a reason. How on earth are we supposed to break in there?”

 

“If the Lestrange vault is anything like ours, it will be located in the depths of Gringotts. We would be up against complex locking enchantments, curses and probably even a dragon or two,” Malfoy warned. “Trying to steal something from there would be extremely dangerous.”

 

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Harry said.

 

“Um, actually, I have an idea if you want to hear it,” Neville ventured, and Harry nodded encouragingly. “A blood relative who has been entrusted with the key can gain access to a Gringotts vault without having to worry about security. My Gran withdraws money for me all the time. And isn’t Bellatrix Lestrange Draco’s aunt?”

 

“Unfortunately,” Malfoy confirmed, his nose wrinkling with distaste. “But somehow I doubt she would be willing to give the key to her blood-traitor nephew so I can rob her vault.”

 

“Who said she had to be willing?” Neville said darkly. “I say we set a trap for her and take it by force.”

 

Harry was surprised to hear such venom and ferocity in the voice of a boy who was usually so kind and gentle by nature. But in light of what Bellatrix had done to Neville’s parents, he understood. Neville probably hated her as strongly as Harry hated Voldemort.

 

The idea was appealing for more than one reason. Harry had to admit, after his failure to avenge Sirius’s death that night at the Department of Mysteries, he had been itching to go up against Bellatrix again. He was stronger now than he had been then. This time he would not be so easily overcome.

 

“That would be almost as dangerous as breaking into Gringotts,” Hermione pointed out.

 

“If it means Bellatrix goes back to prison and we get another Horcrux, I think it’s worth the risk,” Harry said firmly, earning a grim smile from Neville.  


Hermione sighed, but she must have been able to tell he was determined about this because she made no further attempt to dissuade him. “Well, if we are going to do this, we need a solid plan. Ron, you’re our primary strategist these days. Any suggestions?”

 

Ron looked immensely pleased with himself. “Yeah, I reckon I could come up with something.”

 

“Good,” Harry said. “You, Hermione and Malfoy work on that. Ginny and Neville, we need to figure out where this last Horcrux is hidden.”

 

“And you’re sure it’s in Hogwarts?” Ginny asked.

 

Hogwarts was the only real home that the orphan Tom Riddle had ever had. It was where he had learned to master his magic, discovered he was the Heir of Slytherin, and begun to gather supporters for his pureblood cause. It was also reputed to be the most secure location in all of Great Britain – even more so than Gringotts. “Yes, I’m sure.”

 

For the next half an hour they all say around the table brainstorming ideas and sketching out plans. But Harry felt certain that they were missing something important. Something painfully obvious but just out of reach.

 

 _If I were Voldemort,_ he thought – and shuddered, because he had no desire to try to adopt the mindset of his enemy, even for a moment. They were more similar than he liked to admit, though. His scar chose that moment to give a painful twinge, reminding him of their connection. Voldemort used it against him but, if he was careful, could it also be used to Harry’s advantage?

 

He concentrated, allowing a wash of alien emotions to slide like slick oil over his soul. Revolted but determined, Harry sifted through them, trying to find something relevant.

 

Arrogance. The belief that he was intellectually superior to all those around him, more knowledgeable.

 

Tom Riddle had found Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets and was confident that he was the only one. What else had he found in his time at Hogwarts?

 

The Marauders, and the Weasley twins after them, had found most of the hidden places and passages that Hogwarts had to offer. It had to be something more than that. A secret of Hogwarts, but one manipulated beyond the obvious. Or perhaps Voldemort simply believed no one but himself was smart enough to discover what he had.

 

 _If I had something important that I needed to hide somewhere inside Hogwarts castle, where would I put it?_ Harry asked himself. He tried to picture himself with something valuable, dangerous, secret. What would he do with it?

 

He had no idea.

 

Frustrated, with a splitting headache making him feel even worse, Harry jumped to his feet and started pacing the floor restlessly.

 

The only place he had really hidden anything was under the loose floorboard in his room at Privet Drive-

 

The floor creaked beneath him.

 

Harry looked down and saw that the wooden plank he stood on had shifted under his weight. Excited, he got down on his knees and pried it open… but the space beneath was empty. He sat back on his haunches, disappointed, feeling that he was stumped after all.

 

But then his eyes widened as he realised what had just happened.

 

The Room of Requirement had accommodated his needs. He wanted a hiding place, and the Room had provided one.

 

He leapt up.

 

“Out! Everyone out!”

 

“Harry, what-?”

 

“Just do it. Trust me.” Making them drop the books and papers they were working on, Harry herded them all out of the room, and they nearly ran into Luna coming the other way.

 

“Oh, is it bedtime already?” Luna asked. “You have been looking very tired, Harry; I can tell you what I found out in the morning…”

 

But sleep was the last thing on his mind; adrenaline had shoved Harry’s fatigue to the bottom of his list of priorities. He was eager to try out his theory, but Luna’s fact-finding mission was important too. He forced himself to slow down and listen. “No, what is it?”

 

“Well it is a very long and tragic story, but you look like you would prefer the short version right now.”

 

He smiled gratefully. “Yes, please.”

 

“Helena stole the diadem from her mother and hid it. For centuries she was too ashamed of what she had done to tell anyone, but about 50 years ago someone coaxed the story out of her.”

 

Harry recalled the image of a charming and manipulative young Tom Riddle, and the answer came easily. “Voldemort.”

 

Luna nodded. “He promised to destroy it for her. Its existence had tormented her and she longed to be free of it, so she told him where it was hidden.”

 

“But when Voldemort found it, he turned it into a horcrux instead,” Harry said. It all made sense. “So now we know exactly what we are looking for.”

 

“I did a rough sketch of the diadem the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw’s statue in our common room wears, if that helps,” Luna added, handing him a sheet of parchment.

 

He looked down at the beautifully drawn, detailed picture of a tiara. “You, Luna,” he declared, “are absolutely wonderful.” In the heady rush brought on by long-awaited breakthroughs, he impulsively leaned in to kiss her on the cheek and he was too caught up in the moment to notice what he had done, to see Luna’s light blush and small smile, or to hear the choke and splutter from someone in his forgotten audience. “Now we just need to find it, and I think I have a pretty good idea of where it could be.”

 

He turned to fix his gaze on the blank wall where the door they had just come through had been only moments ago. The Room of Requirement came fully equipped with the seeker’s needs. He couldn’t make a general request, though; he had to _need_ it. “Ron, do you still have that Fanged Frisbee?”

 

“Um, yeah.”

 

“Can I have it?”

 

“Yeah, it’s here somewhere…” He rummaged through his bag and handed it over.

 

Hermione tutted disapprovingly. “Ron, you know that is a prohibited item; you shouldn’t be carrying it around. If Filch came past here and saw you with it…”

 

Harry smiled, and spoke to the wall. “I could get in trouble for having this. I need somewhere to hide it.”

 

He spun on his heel, pacing back and forth three times, thinking about the need for a room to hide the Frisbee in, a room that could be used to hide anything and everything.

 

On his third time past, a door appeared.

 

“Surely it can’t be that simple…” Hermione murmured.

 

“Maybe not,” Harry said. “But it could be.” He reached out and pulled open the door.

 

As one, the group let out a collective gasp at the sight that greeted them. They stood dumbly in the doorway for a few long moments, staring out into the room with awe. The Fanged Frizbee fell from Harry’s slackened grip and flew off to join a few others that were hovering around.

 

This was certainly the place to hide it.

 

But there was more than just Fanged Frisbees hidden in this room. Far, _far_ more.

 

“Bloody hell, this place is _massive!”_ Ron exclaimed at last.

 

“That is an understatement,” Malfoy said. “You could fit an entire _cathedral_ inside of here easily, if it was not already filled with so much junk.”

 

“Is this all stuff that students have hidden?” Neville wondered.

 

“This room must have been used for centuries,” Hermione said. “There could be artefacts in here from the very first generation of students to attend this school! Just imagine what we could discover…”

 

“At the moment, there is only one thing we need to find,” Harry reminded them. “And I know it’s in here.” He could _feel_ it.

 

“How on earth are we supposed to be able to find it amongst all this lot?” Ron asked, gesturing at the innumerable piles of miscellaneous objects that loomed overhead and stretched back into the room as far as the eye could see.

 

“It’s this way.” Harry started down one of the many aisles, leaving the others to follow after him. They must have been confused, but he was glad that they did not ask questions. He could not explain his reasons and he wasn’t really eager to think about why he felt so confident that he knew where he was going. Besides, his head hurt and the throbbing that had been in the background was getting worse with every step.

 

“Hey, that is the cabinet that Montague got stuck in last year,” Malfoy said.

 

Harry glanced at it, dimly recalling seeing a similar cabinet somewhere before. But his gaze was drawn off to the side and there, tucked in between a stack of magazines and a broken crate, half hidden beneath a horribly-knitted jumper, was a discoloured tiara.

 

It did not look like anything special; just another ancient and somewhat battered piece of history long forgotten. But if Harry squinted, he could just make out the words ‘Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure’ engraved on the surface. He checked the picture that Luna had drawn for him. The two matched.

 

“I found the diadem,” Harry said quietly. He suspected that the head piece was never meant to be particularly beautiful or grandiose; a single crystal was set in the simple silver band and age had dulled both. But Harry found he could not stop gazing at it.

 

He should have been able to hear a reaction to his announcement from the others, but sounds were muffled, as if the world had been submerged in water. If he concentrated, though, he could just make out a faint whisper.

 

It was coming from the diadem.

 

Harry moved closer, trying to hear what was being said. This was the Diadem of Wisdom. What knowledge did it contain; what secrets could he uncover? Could this be the key to learning how to defeat Voldemort once and for all? Could it help him regain the respect of his peers and the general public who, in the wake of Rita’s article, had judged him and found him lacking?

 

Harry stretched out his hand-

 

“Don’t do that, Harry.”

 

Harry blinked; Luna had appeared in front of him. “What?”

 

“There is a swarm of Wrackspurts there and you have enough of those buzzing around your head; you don’t want any more. They make your brain go all fuzzy.” She started to flap her hands in the air as though to dispel the invisible creatures, and oddly enough Harry _did_ feel that his mind was clearing.

 

“Never mind imaginary Wrackspurts, you nearly picked up a _horcrux_!” Hermione exclaimed. “Who knows what kind of spells and curses Voldemort could have put on that diadem! If you had put it on it could have killed you! Or you could have killed one of us!”  


“Don’t blame Harry,” Ginny said. “The pull from one of those things can be very hard to resist.”

 

“Well everyone stay back, then,” Malfoy advised. “I will go and get a Basilisk fang while the rest of you stay here to keep an eye on the horcrux – and each other. Then we can get rid of it.”

 

While they waited for Malfoy to return the others stood in a semicircle facing the diadem, as though it could try to leap up and escape at any moment. After a time, the silence became uncomfortable and Harry thought he could hear the horcrux begin to whisper again. He did his best to ignore it, but he was relieved when Ron spoke.

 

“So, this is the fourth horcrux, huh? Once it’s gone, that’ll be four down, two to go.”

 

“That was a stroke of genius, Harry, finding it in here,” Ginny said.

 

“You know, we’d probably be famous if news of this got out,” Neville said. “I mean, this is the legendary Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw. People have been searching for it centuries and it’s right here! I bet we could get on the front page of the Daily Prophet. There would be interviews, photographs…”

 

“It’s not as fun as it sounds,” Harry said dryly. He had ended up in the headlines of the newspaper more times than he cared to remember and it had never been a particularly pleasant experience. Fame was not all it was cracked up to be. “Besides, if Voldemort found out about this he would realise we are hunting Horcruxes and we’d never get to the others.”

 

Harry shuddered at the possibilities; Voldemort could create even more Horcruxes and put so many layers of protection around them that they would be impossible to find, let alone destroy. The Light side only barely had the advantage now; if they jeopardised that there would be no hope left. “No. No one can ever know about this. The horcrux will die _today,_ and we won’t speak of it to anyone else.”

 

“The real shame is the loss of the diadem,” Hermione said. “It is supposed to enhance the intellect and wisdom of the wearer. Can you imagine the good we could have done with it? The breakthroughs we could have made in so many different fields of research? The grades we could have gotten?”

 

“You’re already the smartest in our year, Hermione,” Ron pointed out. “You’ll be top of the class even without a diadem to help you.”

 

“Boy, it sure would be nice to be that smart,” Neville said wistfully. “My gran might be proud of me, then.”

 

“I’m sure she is already,” Hermione said, giving him an affectionate nudge with her shoulder.

 

“No she isn’t,” Neville sighed, looking glum. “I’m too dumb.”

 

“Would you like me more if I was smarter?” Ron asked suddenly, his gaze flicking from the diadem to Hermione and back again.

 

“Maybe if I had been sorted into _Ravenclaw_ I wouldn’t be so invisible to you,” Ginny said, shifting her weight forward.

 

Neville took a step. “No one would think I was a Squib if I got ‘O’s for all of my N.E.W.T classes.”

 

“I could be the smartest witch in all of Britain!” Hermione exclaimed, pushing to be at the front. “Smarter than Dumbledore; smarter than Rowena Ravenclaw herself!”

 

They started jostling closer to the mound of objects where the diadem lay.

 

“I just want to try it on.”

 

“Me first.”

 

“I need it more than you do.”

 

“You don’t deserve it.”

 

“I work harder than any of you!”

 

“I want it!”

 

“It’s mine!”

 

“Not if I get to it before you!”

 

Possessiveness welled up inside Harry. _He_ had found it first. It belonged to _him!_ He stalked forward, ready to shout and shove until the diadem was within his grasp-

 

But a hand caught his and tugged him back.

 

“No, Harry,” Luna said. “Wrackspurts, remember?” She drew her wand from behind her left ear and frowned a little in concentration.

 

The others cried out in surprised outrage as they were forcefully pushed back by a shield bubble expanding rapidly in front of them. Undeterred, they lurched forward again, throwing their weight against the invisible barrier and pounding at it with their fists.

 

“Snap out of it!” Harry yelled, seizing Ron by the shoulders and spinning him around. “Don’t look at it. The horcrux is trying to control you.”

 

Ron blinked at him in bewilderment. “What?”

 

“You too, Neville,” Harry said, giving him the same treatment and snapping his fingers in his face for good measure.

 

“Come away,” Luna was saying gently, pulling the other girls a safe distance from the diadem. Their eyes cleared and after a few moments they seemed to realise what had happened.

 

“Blimey, that thing is strong,” Ron said, sounding shaken.

 

Hermione looked ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry for laying into you before, Harry. I-I didn’t understand.”

 

“I can’t believe I let him get to me like that – _again_ ,” Ginny seethed.

 

“Why doesn’t it affect you, Luna?” Harry asked. She was the only one out of the group who had been able to keep a level head. If she hadn’t been there to stop them, the horcrux might have succeeded in drawing them in and they could have ended up cursed or possessed – or worse. Considering that this was the first time Luna had encountered a horcrux, her resistance was remarkable. “Couldn’t you hear the whispers?”

 

“Oh yes,” she answered cheerfully. “It called me ‘Looney Lovegood’ and told me that everyone thinks I’m crazy. It said I wasn’t a real Ravenclaw and that my mother was much cleverer than I am. It claimed that if I put on the diadem it would change the way people see me. It said I might finally make friends.”

 

Luna’s words gave Harry a small glimpse into what must have been a lonely and isolated life for her after her mother died. People were quick to label her as odd because she did not fit into societal norms; even Harry, when he first met her, had thought she was strange. And in a way it was true; she _was_ different. But once he had gotten to know her better Harry had realised that her individuality was the best thing about her.

 

“You didn’t listen to it?” he asked.

 

“Why should I? It was lying and anyway, I already have friends. I have you guys.”

 

Harry smiled at her fondly. “Yeah, you do.”

 

“Did I miss something?” Malfoy asked, appearing out of the maze with a Basilisk fang in hand.

 

“Nothing exciting,” Harry reported. “Luna just had to put a shield around the horcrux so we wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, moved forward to examine the shield with a brush of his fingertips, then turned and gave Luna an approving nod. “Good work. You will need to drop the spell so we can destroy the horcrux, though.”

 

“The Wrackspurts will escape,” she warned.

 

“We’ll keep far back,” Harry assured her. He did not like putting the responsibility for this all on Luna, especially considering the danger involved. But after their proven susceptibility to the horcrux’s whispers, he did not want to risk any of the rest of them interfering with what had to be done. “Do you think you can handle it on your own?”

 

Malfoy carefully passed her the fang and she tested its weight in her hand before tightening her grip. “Yes.”

 

“Okay, then. Give us a holler if you need help. And be careful.”

 

“I will.”

 

Harry and the others retreated behind a towering stack of books and broken furniture. They waited with bated breath in the silence of the cavernous room.

 

Abruptly, there came the sound of smashing crystal, metal shattering and an inhuman shriek. Then nothing.

 

“Luna...?”

 

Harry was just about ready to start panicking when a familiar head of dirty blond hair popped around the corner.

 

“It’s a good thing my dad is designing his own diadem,” she said. “Because this one is toast.” And she held up the broken remains of Voldemort’s fourth horcrux for all of them to see.

 

ooOOoo


	39. Christmas

 The last few days of the school term passed quickly. After their success with finding and destroying the diadem Harry was filled with renewed purpose and determination. He focused on the training and planning that would help him to see this war through to its end, and was unfazed by the students and teachers who continued to whisper behind his back and treat him like a fragile ornament that could break at any moment.

 

There were only two horcruxes left. The cup and the snake. They had a plan for getting the cup from Bellatrix’s vault – it wouldn’t be easy, but he was confident they would manage to get it done. Then all that would remain was Nagini. She rarely left Voldemort’s side, so in the final battle they would just have to ensure she died before Harry and Voldemort faced each other.

 

The end was in sight. Once the cup was gone, Harry and his friends would begin preparing for war. Then, one way or another, it would be over.

 

Harry didn’t fool himself into thinking that their victory was assured. There would be dark days ahead. People were going to die and he could very well be one of them.

 

But for now it was Christmas. He was going to enjoy it.

 

Harry received special permission to use the Dumbledore’s fireplace to Floo directly to Grimmauld Place, in order to avoid endangering everyone on the train. As soon as they arrived, Harry and his friends set about decorating the once-gloomy mansion so that it sparkled and shone with all the Christmas cheer they could muster. They all spent an hour hiding in different rooms to wrap presents and then piled them all under the tree. Kreacher bustled around the kitchen, making enough food to feed a hundred people. Ron fixed an old radio and tuned into the Wizarding Wireless Network, filling the mansion with festive music. All talk of horcruxes and the war was set aside in favour of dancing, lame jokes and plenty of laughter. By the time Christmas day rolled around and guests started arriving, Grimmauld Place was barely recognisable.

 

“Harry, dear, so good to see you,” Mrs Weasley said. She didn’t try to hug him but the warmth of her smile surrounded him like a blanket. She was alive and whole, thinner than she used to be but happy and healthy and _alive._

 

Impulsively, Harry stepped forward and hugged her tight. “It’s good to see you, too,” he said. “I’m sorry-”

 

“Hush, child,” she said. “I’m fine and my family is safe.” The way she looked at him let him know that she was including him in her definition of ‘family’. “That is all that matters to me. Now, where can I put all of these presents?”

 

Harry glanced in her bag and saw a number of wrapped bundles that he knew to be knitted jumpers. The one on the top had his name on it and he felt a burst of affection for this woman who had always treated him like one of her own children. “I’ll show you where the tree is.”

 

Malfoy was hanging one last ornament on the tree; a small glittering crystal that had his name engraved. Harry suspected it was a present from his mother.

 

“Hello Draco, dear,” Mrs Weasley said.

 

He turned and his face lit up at the sight of her. “Mrs Weasley! It is good to see you up and around.”

 

“The Healers told me what you did. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

 

Harry smiled. “Join the club. He’s turned into quite the hero, hasn’t he?”

 

Draco flushed and his face turned an even deeper shade of red when Mrs Weasley engulfed him in a hug. “Thank you for saving my life.”

 

He coughed with embarrassment. “It was the least I could do after you accepted me into your home. Anyone else would have turned me away.”

 

“You always have a home with us, dear.”

 

The rest of the Weasleys added thanks of their own as they arrived. Mr Weasley shook Malfoy’s hand for a solid five minutes, thanking him over and over again. Fred and George apologised for having such a low opinion of him and promised that he would escape being a target of their practical jokes for the entire holiday. Bill clapped him on the back and told him he had more nerves than any Curse Breaker he had ever met. Fleur kissed him on the cheek.

 

Draco seemed flustered by all the attention and retreated into the kitchen to help Kreacher set the table for dinner.

 

Lupin and Tonks were the next to arrive. It didn’t escape notice how close they were now – Tonks was tucked into his side and he had an arm around her waist. He seemed a little unsure of how it had happened but happy regardless and Tonks would not stop beaming.

 

“Thank you for inviting us, Harry,” Luna said as she dusted herself off from the fireplace. She was wearing a green dress styled like a Christmas tree and decorated with actual baubles. Bells were woven into her hair and she wore sparkling star earrings that matched her silver shoes.

 

“My pleasure,” he said. He couldn’t suppress a grin. “You certainly know how to get into the Christmas spirit.”

 

She looked down at her dress. “I made it myself. Do you like it?”

 

“It’s brilliant.”

 

“She’s very artistic, is my Luna,” said a man as he emerged from the fireplace.

 

“Harry, this is my father, Xenophilius Lovegood.”

 

He was wearing red robes so bright they were almost blinding and his fly-away hair gave him a slightly eccentric appearance, but Harry had nothing but respect for the man who had printed his interview in The Quibbler when no one else believed that Voldemort had returned. He shook his hand. “Pleased to finally meet you, sir.”

 

“My Luna talks about you all the time, Mr Potter. On behalf of all upstanding journalists everywhere, I apologise for the way you have been treated in the press recently.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“That’s the problem with the _Daily Prophet_. More interested in perpetuating gossip than going out to discover _real_ news. For example, just last week I located a brood of Wiggleguffs in the Redfern Woods – the largest population ever discovered…”

 

“No shop talk, remember Dad?”

 

“Of course, sorry sweetheart. Lovely home you have here, Mr Potter.”

 

Harry blinked. He had still been thinking of this house as belonging to Sirius, but he supposed it _did_ belong to him now. This was his home. He was hosting his first ever party. He missed Sirius and he wished his parents could have been there, but Christmas was about family and as he looked around at the people who mattered most to him he realised that family was not at all in short supply.

 

It was a strange, almost unfamiliar feeling, but Harry realised he was… happy.

 

A small hand slipped into his. “Come on, Harry, the party is starting without us.”

 

Harry let Luna lead him into the dining room. Kreacher popped up beside them almost immediately, offering glasses of butterbeer. Harry passed one to Luna before accepting one himself.

 

“If everyone would like to find a seat,” Harry called, “dinner is served.”

 

On cue, Kreacher clapped his hands and the empty table was suddenly laden with enough food to rival the great feasts of Hogwarts.

 

“Oh, this all looks wonderful,” Luna said to Kreacher. “You have must have worked very hard.”

 

He bowed his wizened head. “Thank you, Miss,” he croaked.

 

“You, too, Harry,” Luna said.

 

“I had a lot of help.”

 

“That just makes it more special.”

 

The younger people ended up grouped down one end of the table while the adults occupied the other. Everyone gushed over the food and drinks flowed freely. The Weasley twins told outrageous tales of the biggest practical jokes they had ever pulled off (and even though the students had been there they were more than happy to relive the anti-Umbridge campaign), Tonks entertained everyone by transforming her features to mimic different people around the table (her impressions of Lupin had him laughing uproariously), Mr and Mrs Weasley told embarrassing stories from when their children were little (like the time Ron had run naked through Ottery St Catchpole because he didn’t want to go home to have a nap) only to have them retaliate with some doozies of their own (like the time gnomes snuck off with Molly’s washing basket and led her on a merry chase trying to get it back), Ginny dared Ron to see how many truffles he could fit in his mouth at once (which Hermione claimed was disgusting but Harry saw the corners of her mouth twitching at the sight of Ron’s comically bulging cheeks), Luna made necklaces from the butterbeer caps scattered across the table (and somehow convinced Draco to wear one as a crown), Xenophilius took dozens of photos with an ancient-looking camera with a blindingly bright flash, and Harry just basked in the palpable joy and friendship that filled this old house to bursting.

 

When everyone had eaten enough food to render them comatose for a week, they shifted their attention to presents.

 

There was a towering pile of gifts under the tree. Mrs Weasley had made her traditional jumpers as well as an assortment of scarfs and beanies, claiming she’d had far too much time on her hands while laid up in hospital. Malfoy was surprised but clearly touched to receive an emerald-green jumper of his very own and pulled it over his robes without hesitation.

 

The Weasley twins had gifted some of their joke shop items – including Muggle magic tricks for their dad, Skiving Snackboxes for Ron, Daydream charms for the girls, a set of Decoy Detonators for Harry and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder for Malfoy.

 

Hermione was given a lot of books, unsurprisingly, but Ron gave her a pretty silver necklace with a book charm that made her cheeks tinge pink. Her gift to him was a framed photo of his first Quidditch win as team captain, in the moment that he and Harry crashed together in a mid-air Victory hug and the stands lit up in a blaze of red and gold behind them. Ron’s ears burned more brightly than his hair as he stammered his thanks.

 

Books were a popular gift. Ron gave Malfoy a copy of _Advanced Wizarding Chess_ and told him to ‘brush up on his skills’, only to laugh out loud when he discovered that Malfoy had bought him the same gift. Harry gave Ron an illustrated copy of ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’ that had been autographed by the entire Chuddley Cannons team, and he gave Malfoy a book on the Healing Arts. Hermione gave Malfoy a book called _The Six Sights_. Malfoy turned to a chapter on Externalists and nudged Harry to give it a read – after a couple of pages Harry realised that the power he was reading about could very well explain why Luna and her father ‘saw’ magical creatures that the majority of the wizarding population dismissed as make-believe. He resolved to listen more carefully to the stories she and her father told; it seemed they knew far more about the world of magic than anyone realised.

 

Harry was nervous as Luna opened her gift from him. He hadn’t been sure what to get her so he had asked the Weasley twins to custom make a pair of ‘Boomerang Boots’ that could wander off on their own but would always return when she called them. Luna was delighted and the boots took an immediate liking to her, following her around the house and hopping onto her feet whenever she would let them.

 

For Harry’s gift, Luna had painted a picture of the Great Lake with silver water glimpies shimmering under the surface of the water. “It’s beautiful,” he told her honestly.

 

“I do love painting. My father gave me a new set of paints and brushes on my birthday last year and I’ve used them to start a friendship mural on the ceiling of my bedroom. It’s nice to have friends.”

 

Harry smiled. “Yeah it is.”

 

The remainder of the evening was filled with singing off key carols and dancing like idiots in the rippling light of floating candles. Luna was quite happy twirling on her own but Harry threw caution to the wind and pulled her into a dance that left both of them breathless and giggling. Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill and Fleur, and Lupin and Tonks all joined in, soon followed by the twins dragging Ginny in as well. It was chaos with everyone bumping into each other and tripping over chair legs but none of them cared. Eventually Ron worked up the nerve to ask Hermione to dance and Harry decided that the evening had been a resounding success.

 

Aware that someone was missing, though, Harry excused himself from Luna who quite happily picked up dancing with her father instead, and went looking for Malfoy. He found him sitting in the dining room at the end of the cleared table, gazing out of the frosted window.

 

“It’s been snowing,” Malfoy told him.

 

The Muggle street outside had been blanketed in a soft layer of fresh snow that glowed under the streetlights.

 

“My mother always loved having a White Christmas. She would bundle us all up in our warmest fur-lined robes and take us on a moonlight walk through the woods until we reached the lake. It would be frozen solid and as smooth as glass. She would conjure a pair of skates for each of us and we would dance together on the ice. She always seemed happiest when she was skating. She would let her hair down and laugh as my father and I slipped and slid all over the place. She was as graceful as a swan – so we would throw snowballs at her until she joined us splayed out like idiots on the ice. She would only laugh harder.”

 

Harry chuckled as he pictured the prim and proper family having a snow day. “Sounds like fun.”

 

Malfoy blew out a sigh. “Those were simpler times.”

 

“You miss your family,” Harry said. He had never been a fan of Lucius, but he knew what it was to miss your parents on Christmas.

 

“I sent Mother a gift, anonymously of course. I just wish I could have given it to her in person.”

 

“Actually, I sent her something as well,” Harry said.

 

Malfoy looked at him in surprise. “What?”

 

“A Slytherin brooch… that also happens to be a portkey.” He held out a thin box; Malfoy opened it to find a pen that had been similarly charmed. “It is timed for eleven o’clock. It will take you both to a little park on the outskirts of Muggle London. There shouldn’t be any prying eyes in the area, and if you do get into trouble the portkey can take you straight back here.”

 

“Aren’t unauthorised portkeys illegal?”

 

“Best you don’t tell anyone then.”

 

“I… don’t know what to say.”

 

Harry hoped that this would begin to make up the enormous debt he owed his friend. “You’re welcome. Go see your mum.”

 

“Thank you. This… it means a lot.”

 

Malfoy picked up the pen and as the clock struck eleven he vanished.

 

ooOOoo

 

The portkey must have taken Narcissa by surprise because when she landed she drew her wand immediately and spun, looking for an attack. When she caught sight of Draco, though, her wand hand dropped to her side. “Draco,” she breathed.

 

“Mother.” He drank in the sight of her. She was as beautiful as always, but she was different in subtle ways. Her clothes didn’t hug so tight, stray strands of hair had escaped from her tight bun and her face was drawn and tired. The past few months had not been kind to her, and yet the smile that spread across her face was more open than any he had seen her wear before.

 

He ran into her arms and she embraced him tightly.

 

“I had thought this was a Christmas I would spend alone. This is a greater gift than I could ever have hoped for.”

 

Draco smiled through his tears. “Potter certainly has his moments.”

 

She drew back. “Harry Potter arranged this? The broach came without a note.”

 

Draco laughed a little at the incredulity in her voice. “Yeah he did.” Trust Potter to think of something like this when Draco hadn’t even mentioned his mother in the lead up to the holidays. There was not much that got past that boy. “He is not so bad when you get to know him.”

 

She looked him over carefully and plucked at the knitted jumper he was still wearing. “What is this?”

 

He flushed; in his rush to see her he had forgotten that his appearance was not as impeccable as she would expect. He was pretty sure he still had a crown of butterbeer caps on his head, too. “Mrs Weasley knitted everyone a jumper for Christmas. Apparently it is something of a tradition in their family.”

 

Her lips pursed. “You have become friends with Potter and his… associates.”

 

Blood traitors and muggle-borns; a far cry from the elite social circles he had been raised in. “Sometimes I still cannot quite believe it myself.”

 

“I have been reading the papers. It is not my preferred method for hearing news of my son, particularly when it involves dangerous battles and near-death experiences.”

 

Draco winced at her cold tone. “I am sorry, Mother. I would send you letters if I did not think I would be putting you at risk by doing so.”

 

“I am not worried for myself. I do not want to lose you, Draco. When I sent you away it was with the intention of keeping you safe from the Dark Lord, but now his anger with you has far surpassed your father’s transgressions. You have been fraternising with and protecting his sworn enemy.”

 

“I do not regret my actions.”

 

“This is not a game, Draco. The Dark Lord has already assigned Vincent and Gregory to bully you into submission.”

 

“They can try. They _have_ tried.” He could still feel echoes of the curses they had inflicted on him and he knew that they would only intensify their efforts when school started up again. “But I will not give in to them no matter what they do to me. I have set myself in opposition to the Dark Lord because I believe he needs to be stopped and I will not back down until his threat is ended.”

 

“You are going to get yourself killed.”

 

“Not if the Dark Lord dies first.”

 

“He is _immortal,_ Draco. He cannot die. The Killing Curse rebounded on him that night in Godric’s Hollow and all it did was slow him down.”

 

“He is not the only one who survived that night.”

 

“Potter is just a boy. We cannot dare to hope that he will vanquish the Dark Lord. I never should have sent you to him. I never should have allowed you to get mixed up in this mess. When I went to Dumbledore for sanctuary I signed your death warrant.”

 

“The Dark Lord will be defeated. He is more vulnerable than you might imagine; more vulnerable than even he knows.”

 

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows drew together. “What have you discovered?”

 

Draco allowed himself a grim smile. “His strength. And therefore his weakness.”

 

She eyed him critically. “Perhaps there is more cunning among the Light than I thought. Are you close?”

 

“Closer than we were. I think we stand a good chance.”

 

“You know that if you fail, you will die.”

 

Draco shrugged. He knew that was a possibility and he found it did not disturb him as much as it should have. “I guess there are some things worth dying for.” He expected her to disagree with him; Slytherins were supposed to look after their own interests above all else. But her answer surprised him.

 

“Some people.”

 

He stared at her.

 

“I learned that when I had you. So if this is the path you have chosen, I will support you however I can.”

 

“Actually… there is something you could do.” He did not want to ask this of her, but the truth was that they were far more likely to succeed with her help than without it. “I need to know where Aunt Bellatrix keeps the key to her Gringotts vault.”

 

Her eyebrows lifted. “You want to break into one of the most secure vaults in one of the most secure banks in the world?”

 

“Not break in. Walk in and out again, hopefully without too much trouble. If we have her key…”

 

“You have been disowned, Draco. Gringotts will not recognise you as a legal relative.”

 

“You disowned me?”

 

“Bella did not leave me much choice in the matter. I had to prove that your choices were your own and that your father and I stood in stern disapproval.”

 

Draco was staggered. It was one thing to be ostracised from his school House, but it was another thing entirely to be stricken from his family tree.

 

“I am sorry, Draco.”

 

He swallowed. “You did what you had to.”

 

“What is in the vault?”

 

He couldn’t tell her about the horcruxes. Voldemort was a powerful Legilimens and there were few who could withstand his intense scrutiny. If he found out what they were doing, he could create more horcruxes and then they would be right back where they had started. “Something we need if we are going to win.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I can get it for you.”

 

“Mother-”

 

“I know where Bella keeps her key. As I am her sister I will not be under any suspicion if I make the withdrawal. I can retrieve whatever it is you are looking for.”

 

“It is too dangerous. If Aunt Bellatrix catches you-”

 

“Bringing down the Dark Lord is the only way to ensure your safety. I will do whatever it takes.”

 

Guilt weighed heavily within him, but there was no denying that she was their best bet.

 

“Helga Hufflepuff’s cup,” he told her.

 

“That ancient heirloom? It is a trinket of a by-gone age, it holds no power.”

 

“I cannot explain why, but we need that cup. And it is vital that the Dark Lord does not learn of this. If he finds out that it has been taken, the consequences will be severe – not only for our family, but for the entire Wizarding World. You must promise me that you can do this in absolute secrecy.”

 

Her expression was grim; she did not take his warning lightly. “I can.”

 

“Revive the _portus_ charm on your broach when you have the cup. We will meet back here.”

 

She nodded.

 

“Mother… there is evil magic upon that cup. Do not hold or look at it for any longer than absolutely necessary.”

 

“I will be careful. Promise that you will be also.”

 

He nodded and gave her another quick hug. “I will see you soon.”

 

His pen began to glow, as did her broach; their time was up.

 

“I love you, Draco,” she said. Given the dangerous times they were living in, it sounded like goodbye.

 

Before he could say anything Draco felt the familiar tug behind his navel. He found himself standing once more in the dining room of Grimmauld Place.

 

The house was quiet; everyone must have left or gone to bed, but Potter was waiting up for him.

 

“Change of plans,” he told Potter. “My mother has agreed to retrieve the cup from Aunt Bellatrix’s vault for us.”

 

Potter’s eyes widened. “That’s-”

 

“Dangerous, I know. But she is an extraordinarily capable witch. She can do this, Potter. Trust me.”

 

“You know I do.”

 

Draco nodded. But he couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that he might never see his mother again.

 

ooOOoo


	40. Shifting Sands

 

Draco’s nerves were on edge. A week had passed since Christmas and his portkey still had not activated. He knew his mother would have to be cautious but the longer he went without hearing from her the more worried he became. Her position had already been precarious, what with her husband’s failure and her son’s rebellion, but if she was discovered hunting for a horcrux not even her status as Bellatrix’s sister could protect her from the Dark Lord’s wrath. In fact, if Bellatrix found out that she was trying to steal from her Gringotts vault she could very well kill Narcissa herself.

 

Draco never should have asked her to risk her life like this. If something happened to her he would never be able to forgive himself.

 

Potter, Granger and Weasley did their best to distract him with games of chess and indoor Quidditch, but Draco kept churning through the possibilities in the back of his mind. What if his mother had been caught trying to take the key? She might be able to come up with an excuse, but what if Bellatrix didn’t buy it? She had been the one to torture Neville’s parents into insanity and familial loyalty meant nothing to her. What if she was willing to interrogate her own sister? Draco’s mother was strong and stubborn; she would not give up the information easily, but her reticence would only push Bellatrix to greater violence.

 

But perhaps Bellatrix did not know the true significance of the cup; she might overlook it. That was a faint hope. Given that the cup was the sacred property of her master, it was more likely that Bellatrix would just hand Draco’s mother over to the Dark Lord for him to deal with. Narcissa was an accomplished Occlumens, but the power that the Dark Lord could bring to bear against her would break her mind. He could learn that Potter was after the cup and then he would know that his horcruxes were under threat. He would seek out the others and, upon realising that they were being systematically destroyed he would put the cup and the snake under so many layers of security that they would be impossible to get to. He might even make more horcruxes just to be safe. Or he might simply decide to launch a pre-emptive attack against the Light and destroy them all before they could destroy him. If he attacked before they could get to the horcruxes he would win. Potter would die and the Wizarding World would fall into darkness.

 

Two weeks. They were due back at Hogwarts the next morning and still no word from his mother.

 

Potter wouldn’t say it out loud, but Draco knew he was thinking about reverting to plan B. Breaking into Hogwarts was as good as a suicide mission, but if Narcissa had not managed to reach the cup then they might have no choice in the matter.

 

It was with a heavy heart that Draco began to pack his trunk for the return to school. His mother could be dead, executed for her treachery, and he had no way of knowing. Her murder would not reach the news; no one cared about the wife of a convicted Death Eater. There would be no funeral. The Dark Lord would dispose of her body and then he would come for Draco.

 

Dying would be preferable to living with the guilt of his mother’s death hanging over his head and the ache of her loss weighing in his heart. He should never have involved her in Potter’s battle. He should have sent her away, far away, not directly into the dragon’s den. This was all his fault.

 

“Don’t give up, Draco,” Granger said, coming to sit on the bed next to him. “If your mother is anything like you, she has the brains and the cunning to pull this off. I bet she is just biding her time until the optimal opportunity to act presents itself.”

 

He twisted the odd Muggle pen between his fingers. “I hope so.”

 

As if on cue, then pen began to glow.

 

Granger’s face split into a wide smile. “See?”

 

Draco’s stomach leapt with sudden joy and he barely felt the jerk behind his navel that transported him back to that little Muggle park.

 

“Mother-!”

 

He froze in confusion. The park was empty.

 

“Mother…?”

 

He turned, trying to discern some sign of his mother but the snow was thicker now and appeared undisturbed. Except… there. A glimmer of gold nestled at the base of a tree.

 

He approached cautiously and knelt in the snow to get a closer look at the object. It was a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles and a badger engraved on the side, just like the picture of Helga Hufflepuff’s cup from _Hogwarts: A History._

 

Inside the cup was his mother’s broach.

 

She wasn’t here. But she had sent the cup to him. So she had successfully stolen it from Bellatrix’s vault. But if she had managed to complete the mission without being caught, why hadn’t she met him here? Or if she thought it was too dangerous to meet again in person, why hadn’t she at least sent a note to tell him she was okay?

 

Disquieted, Draco reached out with his Sight. He saw the pulsing mass of twisted green and black and red that he recognised as a soul fragment. This was the real horcrux, then. If it had been a trap, the Dark Lord would have sent a fake in its place.

 

Draco decided that he had to trust that his mother knew what she was doing. Careful not to touch it directly, he bundled the cup in the hem of his robes and clicked the pen to take him back to Grimmauld Place.

 

“She did it!” Granger exclaimed as Draco uncovered the cup and set it down on the dining room table.

 

“The fifth horcrux,” Potter said. “I can’t believe we actually found it.”

 

“Your mum is a genius,” Weasley said. “Stealing this right out from underneath Bellatrix’s nose. How the hell did she do it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco answered quietly. He still was not at all confident that this victory had not come without a terrible cost.

 

“This is a good thing, Draco,” Granger said. “When the war is over, we can bring this before the Wizengamot. I bet it would go a long way towards earning a pardon for your parents.”

 

_If we win, and if they survive that long._

 

“Would you like to do the honours of destroying it, Malfoy?” Potter offered. He held out a Basilisk fang.

 

Malfoy gripped the tooth and stared down at the cup.

 

_If my mother is in trouble, I could use this to buy back her freedom. I could deliver the horcrux to the Dark Lord and beg him to spare her. Fair exchange; her life for his. Maybe it would doom the world, but at least she would be safe._

“Malfoy?”

 

The horcrux was whispering to him. Salazar but it was devious. It knew exactly what to say.

 

Grimly determined, he raised the fang.

 

_You’re going to kill her._

 

He gritted his teeth and brought the fang down hard. It pierced through the gold like a hot knife through butter and the soul fragment _shrieked._

 

Potter recoiled, hand clapping over his scar.

 

The cup crumpled in on itself until it was reduced to a tarnished lump of twisted metal.

 

Draco’s Sight confirmed that the horcrux was dead. He should have been relieved, but he only felt more anxious. What had he done?

 

“Five down, one to go,” Weasley said. “Now the real work begins, huh?”

 

“Guess so,” Potter said. “Any ideas on how we can take on an entire army of Death Eaters, kill a 12-foot-long snake and destroy Voldemort all in one hit?”

 

There was silence around the table. Battle strategies were the last thing on Draco’s mind at the moment; he had nothing to offer.

 

Potter blew out a sigh. “Yeah, me neither. We’re totally barmy, aren’t we?”

 

Draco had to admit, the idea of a group of teenagers going up against the most notorious Dark Wizard of the age sounded absolutely insane.

 

“A little bit, yeah,” Ron said.

 

“Do you think you can do it, Harry?” Granger asked. “I mean, if in the end it really does come down to you against Voldemort. Do you think you can actually cast a killing curse? Because you have to mean it. You have to want him dead.”

 

“I know how the killing curse works, Hermione.”

 

Draco noticed that Potter didn’t directly answer the question, but how could he? How could anyone know if they were capable of killing a person until the very moment that their spell hit their target? If anyone deserved to die it was Voldemort, but the responsibility of killing him had to be a heavy burden to bear, especially for a sixteen-year-old boy.

 

“There are still a lot of obstacles we have to deal with before we reach that point,” Draco pointed out. He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand and leave thoughts of his mother to another time. She could handle her own; he had to trust that she was alright. “Do you think we can call on the Aurors if it comes to all-out war?”

 

“I doubt they’d want to take orders from teenagers, or plan their entire attack strategy around a boy with a scar on his forehead,” Potter said. “We do have the Order of the Phoenix… There aren’t many of them, but they will listen to Dumbledore.”

 

Draco felt a spark of annoyance at the name. “Oh yes, I’m sure he’d have no problem with sending a teenager to the front lines,” he muttered.

 

“I’ll meet with him when we get back to school,” Potter said, unperturbed as ever at the idea that Dumbledore was using him. “He’s been coordinating the war effort since Voldemort first rose to power in the seventies; I’m sure he’s planned out some scheme or another.”

 

“Whether he’ll deign to share that with his boy hero…” Draco’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

 

Potter frowned. “This conflict is coming to a head. He can’t afford to keep any more secrets.”

 

Draco wasn’t so sure. Dumbledore had kept the truth about the horcruxes to himself, and even when he had supposedly told them everything Draco had been convinced he was still holding something back. Maybe the Headmaster did have some sort of master plan, but whether it would be in Potter’s best interests was another matter entirely.

 

But their options were limited. The reality was that they needed soldiers and Dumbledore could provide them. He did have decades of experience and he knew their enemy better than anyone. It didn’t mean Draco had to trust him.

 

Draco would simply have to be on his guard for when the second shoe dropped.

 

ooOOoo

 

Using Floo Powder to travel between home and Hogwarts made the trip significantly faster than it would have been on the train. They slept in, took their time getting ready, even had lunch before setting off and they still arrived earlier than the Hogwarts Express.

 

Dumbledore was there to greet them with a warm smile and twinkling eyes.

 

“Welcome, welcome! I trust you all had a wonderful Christmas.”

 

Weasley shot a look at Granger and his ears turned pink as he said “Yeah, not bad.”

 

Granger smiled at the ground and Draco realised that he had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed the shift between them. It was about time; they had been dancing around the issue for years and Weasley had almost screwed the whole thing up by kissing Lavender (thankfully that relationship had died a swift death), but it seemed they finally had their act together. Good for them.

 

“I heard from Professor Tonks that you hosted a marvellous party, Harry. Sirius would be proud of you.”

 

Potter didn’t bat an eyelid at the mention of his godfather but Draco winced internally. Grief always ached more keenly during times of celebration; Potter did not need a reminder that his father-figure hadn’t been there.

 

“We also managed to find and destroy another horcrux,” Potter said, getting straight to the point. He set the mangled cup on Dumbledore’s desk.

 

“Ah.” Dumbledore picked it up to examine it, turning it this way and that to see how the light glinted on the melted surface. “Thoroughly destroyed. A shame; it was said to be a beautiful cup. But then, its beauty was tarnished when Lord Voldemort twisted it to his own evil purposes.” He opened a drawer and pulled out the mangled remnants of the other horcruxes: the diary, the ring, the locket and the diadem. “The cup makes five. I must say, Harry, you have proven to be an extremely capable horcrux-hunter.”

 

“Actually, the credit for this one goes to Malfoy and his mother. He realised that the horcrux would be in Bellatrix’s vault and his mother retrieved it for us.”

 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? When I granted her request for your sanctuary, I had no idea how well you both would repay the debt.”

 

Draco bristled at the idea that he had owed Dumbledore anything. “She didn’t do it for you.”

 

“Nevertheless, her actions have greatly aided us. Now all that remains are Nagini and- well, Voldemort himself. I am afraid eliminating them will be a far more complicated endeavour.”

 

“We were hoping you had a plan.”

 

Dumbledore eyed Harry. “In a manner of speaking. I confess that I thought it would take longer for us to reach this point, and I rather imagined that Lord Voldemort would eventually come to us.”

 

 _Come for Harry, you mean,_ Draco thought.

 

“We have prepared defensive measures for an assault on Hogwarts. Every teacher knows and has practiced their roles, we have a system in place for rapid evacuation of the younger students, and any attack will trip an alarm that immediately calls for reinforcements.”

 

“You-Know-Who would be taking a big risk attacking Hogwarts head on,” Weasley said. “There’s a lot of power here. He would probably lose most of his army and he wouldn’t gain much.”

 

“You make a good point, Mr Weasley. We have also considered the possibility that he will attack the Ministry.”

 

“It is more vulnerable…” Weasley mused. “Easier to infiltrate. It is probably filled with spies already, ready to attack from within when You-Know-Who makes his move.”

 

“I have warned Rufus Scrimgeour of the danger. We have no way of knowing when Lord Voldemort will make his bid for power, but I do believe his intention is to overthrow the government. Scrimgeour seems to think his Aurors will be able to repel any force brought against them.”

 

“But if the prophecy is right, the only one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord is Potter,” Draco said.

 

“That does seem to be the implication, which indeed places anyone else who confronts him at considerable risk.”

 

“Then I have to face him, and soon.”

 

Dumbledore smiled gently. “I admire your courage, Harry. I do agree that taking the fight to him is our best move, but there is one problem. We have no idea where he is.”

 

“Makes it hard to plan an attack,” Weasley said.

 

“Maybe we could draw him out?” Granger suggested.

 

“Anywhere that fields a magical battle is going to be utterly destroyed,” Draco said, recalling how damaged Privet Drive had been after a considerably smaller fight. “We can’t just throw a dart at a map to choose a spot to wipe off it.”

 

Potter shrugged. “So we find out where he’s hiding and then we hit him with everything we’ve got.”

 

“I will put my best people on it,” Dumbledore said. “Until then, enjoy each moment as it comes.”

 

 _Because it might be your last_ , Draco filled in silently. He wondered if that remark was intended as general advice during war times, or if it was directed at Potter. It seemed to be encouragement to live in the now because there wouldn’t be a future, something Draco had tried very hard to convince Potter wasn’t true. If Potter thought the final battle against Voldemort was the end for him, he wouldn’t fight as hard to stay alive. He had to believe that there was more for him than this – it would drive him, give him strength, help him win, help him survive.

 

Sometimes, Draco wondered if that was really what Dumbledore wanted. 

 

The strategy session was put on hold until more information on the Dark Lord’s whereabouts came to light. It was still half an hour until the train was due to arrive, so Potter, Granger and Weasley took their trunks to Gryffindor tower to settle back in.

 

Draco made the most of the extra time to re-set the wards around his bed while the Slytherin dorms were quiet.

 

His gaze was drawn to the empty bunks and felt a wave of nausea wash over him at the prospect of Crabbe and Goyle returning. He would almost prefer to march straight to war than to stay here playing school with sadistic class-mates. He was half tempted to request a re-Sorting from the hat in Dumbledore’s office so he wouldn’t have to share a room with his torturers another day more. But he was not a coward; he would not run. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

 

They were just bullies, and dim-witted ones at that. Neither of them had ever had an original thought. When they were kids they had followed him like sheep, and now they were following the Dark Lord just as blindly. They didn’t care what he stood for or what his ideals would do to society; they were attracted to power and violence and all they wanted to do was inflict pain on others. They had no concept of friendship, or loyalty, or doing the right thing. Draco was better than them and he was going to prove it.

 

At least, that was the plan.

 

Unfortunately, when they cornered him in the corridor outside the Prefect’s bathroom that evening after the Welcoming Feast, he discovered that while _they_ might be limited in intelligence, Bellatrix was not.

 

“You’re going to do what we want,” Goyle said.

 

Draco rolled his eyes, even as his hand closed around the wand in his pocket. “You really need to come up with some original lines.”

 

A slow, predatory smile began to curl his lips. “I wasn’t finished. You’re going to do what we want, what the Dark Lord wants… or your mother will suffer the consequences.”

 

Draco stiffened. “What did you just say to me?”

 

Crabbe snickered. “You heard him just fine.”

 

“How dare you threaten my mother! She is of one of the purest bloodlines-”

 

“You think that counts for anything anymore? Bellatrix isn’t stupid. She noticed that her key was missing and followed your mum to Gringotts. Caught her red-handed.”

 

Draco paled. “Wh-what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Don’t play dumb. Whatever she stole, she sent it to you. Bellatrix wants it back.”

 

Draco’s heart skipped a beat and then started pounding faster. “I can’t.”

 

Goyle shoved him into the wall and pressed the tip of his wand into his neck. Draco was too stricken to move. “I don’t think you’re understanding us. Your mum is a traitor. She’s as good as dead. Her connection to you is the only reason Bellatrix hasn’t A.K-ed her already _._ But if you don’t obey us, she dies.”

 

Crabbe grinned. “Simple as that.”

 

“Give us the piece, and Bellatrix might spare her.”

 

He swallowed. “I can’t give it back. It’s gone. We- we destroyed it.”

 

“You had better be lying to us, Malfoy.”

 

His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not.”

 

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other.

 

“When Bellatrix hears about this-”

 

“I vote we make _him_ tell her. We didn’t do nothing wrong.”

 

“Either way, Narcissa is dead meat.”

 

“No, wait! There has to be something – some way I can-” Draco scrambled for an answer, desperate to find a way to protect his mother. “Aunt Bellatrix hasn’t told the Dark Lord what was stolen yet, has she? She won’t, she wouldn’t dare. But if she – if she harms my mother, I’ll tell Snape what it was. He’ll tell the Dark Lord and Bellatrix will be in trouble. The Dark Lord will be furious.”

 

“Your mum will still die. Slow and painful like.” There was a sadistic gleam in Crabbe’s eyes. “I hope we get to watch.”

 

“What if – what if I were to do what you asked? What if I stopped hanging around Potter?” Draco couldn’t believe what he was offering. So much for friendship and loyalty.

 

“Too little, too late, Malfoy,” Goyle sneered.

 

“There’s nothing else I can give you. Please.” He was begging. How had they reduced him to this? Where was his pride, his pure-blood arrogance?

 

He didn’t care about that anymore. He just didn’t want to lose his mother.

 

Crabbe and Goyle stepped back to confer with each other behind raised hands, as though that would make it harder for Draco to overhear them.

 

“I say Bellatrix can deal with her own problems,” Crabbe said.

 

“Yeah. She already lost favour after the kidnapping Muggles idea didn’t work to draw out Potter; she won’t want to risk her position as the Dark Lord’s favourite. We’ll let Malfoy’s blackmail stand so she’ll give his bitch mother over to us.”

 

Draco flinched at the vulgar term but they were doing what he wanted so he kept his mouth shut. Bellatrix was the true threat to his mother; Crabbe and Goyle were just school yard bullies who threw curses around like punches. For Bellatrix, torture was an art form. He wanted his mother as far away from her as possible.

 

“The Dark Lord ordered us to turn Malfoy,” Crabbe said, “so that’s what we’re going to do.”

 

Goyle turned back to him. “You can’t just avoid Potter. It’s not good enough. You have to go back to the way things were before. He’s your enemy and you should act like it.”

 

Draco’s stomach lurched. Everything within him was revolted by the idea of reverting to the type of person he had been before Privet Drive: arrogance born of a misplaced sense of superiority, barbed words designed to mock and belittle his classmates, lording his name over people instead of building meaningful friendships, caring for no one but himself.

 

But what they were asking from him was even worse than that. They wanted him to turn against Potter. Draco remembered how he used to treat him – the rivalry, the insults, the sly attacks. He had viewed Potter as the stuck-up Golden Boy of Gryffindor, with his stupid scar and his undeserved fame, but he knew better now. He knew Potter, he knew what his life had been like, he knew what he was struggling with and the burdens he had to bear. Potter had copped enough abuse at home and at school Draco had only added to it. He had been no better than Dudley, and to do anything that would remind Potter of his cousin-

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Aww, he doesn’t want to hurt his boyfriend’s feelings.”

 

“Well that’s too damn bad, Malfoy, you either ditch him and come back to us or we’ll use your mum as target practice at our next DE meeting. What do you say?”

 

He wanted desperately to say no. He didn’t want to be that guy again, and he didn’t want to lose the only true friendships he’d ever had. But this wasn’t about him. “You – you have to promise that no harm will come to my mother.”

 

Crabbe grunted. “She’ll be safe as long as you play your part.”

 

Draco knew that to agree to this was to betray the friendship and trust that Potter had placed in him, but he had to hope that when all was said and done Potter would understand why he had to do it. He had to hope this wouldn’t break him. He was doing so much better lately. At the Christmas party he had been relaxed, happy. He hadn’t shied away from physical contact as much as he used to. He had smiled, and laughed. He had even danced with Luna. He had good friends around him, and the end of the war was in sight. Draco had to hope that he would be okay.

 

“It’ll do it,” he said.

 

ooOOoo


	41. Betrayal

“Has anyone seen Malfoy?” Harry asked.

 

It had become a routine of theirs, sharing an early breakfast in the Great Hall before the other students started filtering in. They were both early risers – Harry because he was hardly sleeping these days and Malfoy because he wanted to be out of the Slytherin dorms before the rest of his housemates woke up. But the Great Hall was bustling with students and there was still no sign of him.

 

Ron glanced up from his breakfast (he was on his third helping of sausages and Harry was still at a loss to explain how he could eat that much) and scanned the room. “Isn’t that him over there?”

 

Harry turned to see where he was pointing and was stunned to see the familiar head of platinum blond hair over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy hadn’t sat at his own house table for months. “Why…?”

 

“Maybe they’re enforcing the rule about sitting with your own house?” Hermione suggested.

 

“He sat with us last night,” Harry said. He craned to look through the crowd. “Is that… is he sitting between Crabbe and Goyle?”

 

Ron frowned. “Looks like it.”

 

“He wouldn’t do that willingly,” Hermione said. “They have been attacking him left right and centre every chance they get. It’s horrible.”

 

“We had better go make sure he’s okay.” Ron set down his cutlery and made to rise, a grim expression on his face.

 

“Wait.” Hermione reached out with a napkin and wiped a smudge of tomato sauce from the corner of Ron’s mouth. “There, you look a lot more threatening now.”

 

Harry raised his eyebrows at her and she blushed, setting the napkin down hurriedly. He smirked but didn’t say anything.

 

“Come on, Harry,” Ron said.

 

They made their way through the throngs of students and approached the Slytherin table. Harry dropped his wand into his hand and Ron did the same; there might have been teachers around but if Crabbe and Goyle were dumb enough to start something they would not hesitate to fight back.

 

Malfoy saw them first. Some undefined emotion jolted across his features but his expression quickly curdled into a sneer. “Potter.”

 

Harry slowed, suddenly uncertain, but Ron ploughed right on ahead. “Oi! Crabbe, Goyle, are you bothering our friend?”

 

The hulking Slytherins turned to look at them. “Friend?” Crabbe asked. “Did you hear that, Malfoy?”

 

“I heard him,” Malfoy drawled. “Why he would be deluded enough to imagine that I could ever be friends with the likes of blood traitors and Mudbloods is beyond me.”

 

Ron’s mouth dropped open.

 

“Trying to catch flies with that giant trap of yours, Weasley?”

 

Befuddled, Ron looked to Harry and back again. “You’re… kidding around, right?”

 

“Actually, Weasley, I’m done playing. It was fun for a while, but I’m afraid I just can’t stomach the façade a single day more.”

 

“Façade?”

 

“Of course, I forgot that your tiny brain can’t cope with big words. I was _pretending,_ Weasley.”

 

“Pretending? What are you on about?”

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Gryffindors, always needing everything laid out for them in simple terms. I was _pretending_ to be friends with you, you absolute dolt.”

 

Crabbe and Goyle snickered.

 

Ron glared at them. “You did something. What was it? Torture? The Imperius Curse?” He levelled his wand in Goyle’s face. “Undo whatever you did to him right the hell now.”

 

Malfoy batted the wand away with a dismissive hand. “I’m not under any curse, Weasley. You’ve known me since we were first-years – did you _really_ buy that I had ‘turned over a new leaf’?”

 

“No one is that good of an actor.”

 

“Never underestimate a Slytherin. I was excruciatingly bored during the summer holidays so I set myself a challenge – to see if I could fool Potter and his dumb friends into thinking I was one of them. I never expected that you would actually _fall_ for it! The gullibility of Gryffindors never ceases to amaze!”

 

“You saved Harry’s life. You saved my _mother’s_ life!”

 

“All part of the act. Believe me, I was tempted to let that fat porker cark it, but I wanted to see just how long I could keep the con going. I swear this has to be a record!”

 

Ron’s expression darkened. “If Crabbe and Goyle are forcing you to say this stuff, speak now and I’ll hex them into kingdom come.”

 

“No one’s forcing me to say anything, Weasley. This is the best fun I’ve had in months. The look on your face? _Priceless_.”

 

Ron’s hands balled into fists.  “So you’re not going to take that back?”

 

“Why would I?”

 

Ron made a low growl deep in his throat and lunged forward. In a lightning-fast movement Malfoy’s wand was in hand and he shot off a spell that flung Ron backwards. He crashed into the row of Ravenclaws seated behind him.

 

Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter.

 

Ron clambered to his feet, his face swiftly becoming redder than his hair. “I _knew_ it! I knew you were a dirty liar!”

 

Malfoy smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, Weasel.”

 

Ron held his wand in a white-knuckled grip. His hands were shaking in rage. “I warned you, Malfoy. I warned you what would happen if you betrayed Harry’s trust.”

 

“What are you going to do, big man? Fight me? I think we all know which of us is the better duellist. You wouldn’t last ten seconds against me.”

 

“Wanna bet?” Ron made to lunge forward again, but Harry caught his arm.

 

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Just… don’t.”

 

“But Harry-”

 

When he saw the expression on Harry’s face Ron closed his mouth, though he looked anything but happy about it.

 

“Just tell me one thing, Draco,” Harry said.

 

This whole time, Malfoy had not looked at him directly, but now grey eyes met green. Harry had thought he might find answers there, in the depths of those eyes he knew so well, but they were unreadable.

 

“Was any of it real?”

 

The past few months had been hell, but Harry had made it through them – with Malfoy’s help. He had been a bedrock, grounding Harry through all the storms life threw at him. When Harry was ready to give up, to fall and refuse to get up again, Malfoy always seemed to know just the right thing to say or do to give Harry the strength to keep going.

 

_“Ever heard of the word ‘unique’? Or ‘special’, ‘exceptional’, ‘singular’, ‘extraordinary’?”_

_“Harry. I won’t hurt you, I promise. You’re safe with me.”_

_“You are a rare wizard, Harry Potter.”_

_“I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.”_

_“You are not weak. I think you are the strongest person I have ever met.”_

_“You know you can handle this. You are strong enough, Harry. Believe it.”_

_“You’re going to be okay.”_

Harry had believed him. He had trusted him. He had known how dangerous it was, he had known that he was setting himself up for the fall, but after a while he had dared to think that maybe, just maybe, Malfoy’s offer of friendship was genuine. He had relied on him. When he could confide in no one else, he could talk to Malfoy. He felt safe with him.

 

He should have known better.

 

“Everything you said to me… everything you did… You didn’t mean any of it, did you?”

 

Something _splintered_ in those grey eyes, but Malfoy’s voice was cold. “No.”

 

With that single word, Harry’s world shattered.

 

ooOOoo

 

“Harry-”

 

“I’m fine,” he repeated. He had lost count of the number of times he had said it, but they kept asking and his answer wasn’t going to change.

 

So what if it was a lie? Telling the truth wouldn’t make any difference.

 

He went about his days mechanically. He lay in his bed staring up at the canopy until it was time to get up. He got dressed and went for his morning run, had his shower and then ate his breakfast. It didn’t taste like anything but Hermione would watch him worriedly until she thought he had eaten enough. He went to his classes and gazed blankly at the blackboard as the teacher’s words floated over him. He scrawled slow answers to his homework, he ate dinner and he climbed back into bed to stare at the canopy once more.

 

He knew how to do this. He knew how to keep functioning when everything had fallen apart. He knew how to go through the motions. Losing Sirius had been good practice. He had learned how to keep his body moving when his spirit was dead.

 

“He’s a git, Harry. Just ignore him.”

 

“You were doing just fine before he came along. You don’t need him.”

 

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know what it was that had finally broken him. Malfoy was the only one who knew. Harry had been slowly fitting the pieces back together but the wounds hadn’t had time to heal over before they had all been burst wide open again.

 

The truth was that Harry didn’t know how to do this on his own anymore. He had been trying so hard to remember who he used to be, but too much had happened. He was battered and bruised and _tired,_ too tired.

 

His only consolation was that this would all be over soon.

 

“Harry, you shouldn’t let him get to you like this.”

 

“Yeah, mate, this is what he wants. He played you and it sucks, but you can’t let him win.”

 

“You’ve still got us. You’re not alone.”

 

He considered telling them. He looked into Hermione’s eyes and he tried to form the words in his mind, but he couldn’t.

 

Malfoy had been there. Harry never had to tell him. He had seen what had happened and he had told Harry it wasn’t his fault. He told him he wasn’t dirty or broken or worthless.

 

But he didn’t mean it, not any of it.

 

Which meant it _was_ Harry’s fault. He _was_ weak. He could have done something to prevent it, he could have defended himself. Maybe the _Daily Prophet’s_ insinuations were true after all. Maybe he had wanted it. Maybe he had deserved it.

 

One thing he knew for certain was that he could never tell another living soul.

 

But if they didn’t know, they couldn’t understand why Malfoy’s betrayal was tearing him apart. He hadn’t just lost a friend. He had lost his foundation and now he was falling.

 

He wondered what would happen when he finally hit rock bottom. He was close, so close. He could feel it, remembered what it had felt like when Uncle Vernon had tried to kill him by repeatedly smashing his head into the floor. At first the pain was indescribable, he had been lost in a wasteland of agony for what felt like forever, but then the darkness had beckoned. It had promised peace and an end to his suffering. After what Dudley had done to him he had wanted to die.

 

Malfoy had pulled him back, but he wouldn’t this time. There was no safety net. He was going to hit and hit hard.

 

Maybe, by some miracle, Harry would kill Voldemort before that happened. Unlikely, given that they had no idea where Voldemort was or how to draw him into a battle on their terms, but if fate was on his side maybe he would find a way to fulfil his destiny. When the war was over and the world no longer needed him, he could give in to the darkness and simply fade into nothing. Or maybe Voldemort would kill him first. Either way, it would be a merciful end.

 

Malfoy had tried to convince him that there was more to his life than fighting Voldemort, that he could have a future beyond that final battle. He had almost glimpsed it, almost believed it could be true, but that faint dream had crumbled to ash.

 

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care anymore.

 

He was falling, falling, and there was no one to catch him.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco’s resolve was breaking down.

 

He had not forgotten his mother’s plight – how could he, when Crabbe Snr kept sending him regular photographs of her locked inside the cellar of their own manor? Her clothes were in tatters, her hair was in utter disarray, her face was gaunt and her skin was ghostly pale. Maybe they weren’t torturing her but they weren’t treating her well and with his every action he was acutely aware that her life hung in the balance.

 

But he could see that Potter was crumbling.

 

He tried to be gentle. Crabbe and Goyle wanted him to engage in vicious verbal attacks that would tear Potter down, but whenever he could he aimed his barbs at Potter’s friends instead. Of course, Granger and Weasley were angered by his comments and whatever regard they’d had for him rapidly declined, but he figured his insults couldn’t really hurt them. Potter, however, was on a knife’s edge; he was exhausted, vulnerable and barely coping. There was much Draco _could_ say – he had inside knowledge that he could use to devastating affect – but Crabbe and Goyle didn’t know what he knew, so they couldn’t know how much he was holding back.

 

Unfortunately, his evasions were not working as well as he’d hoped.

 

It didn’t seem to matter that Draco wasn’t attacking him directly. Potter had been relying on him and when Draco turned he had ripped the rug right out from under his feet.

 

He wished he could explain. Potter knew what it was to do anything to protect the people you love; if he knew Draco’s mother was in danger, he would encourage Draco to lay into him as much as he could and within a week he would probably be trying to mount a rescue mission. But Crabbe and Goyle were watching him like hawks. Where he went, they went. It was like having his old cronies back, except he was their hostage and if he did anything they didn’t like they would have his mother murdered. Even knowing where she was, there was no way Draco could get to her fast enough with enough power behind him to go up against the entire Death Eater army and make it out alive.

 

He had worked it out too late. Of course the Dark Lord was holed up in Malfoy Manor. The old Riddle house had been compromised the night Potter was witness to the Dark Lord’s return to corporeal form, so he would have had to choose another base of operations. Malfoy Manor might not have been hidden the way that Grimmauld Place was, but when the defences were activated it was nigh impenetrable. Given that it belonged to a (once) loyal Death Eater family it was the perfect choice.

 

Potter had talked about going to war but it would have been somewhat difficult to attack without knowing where the enemy was; now Draco knew, and he couldn’t tell anyone. He didn’t _want_ to tell anyone – in a full-frontal assault his mother would die first.

 

Five horcruxes had been destroyed; there was only one remaining. The Dark Lord was more vulnerable than he had ever been and Draco had the one piece of information that the Light side needed. If he was willing to sacrifice his mother, they might have half a chance of winning this war.

 

He might have half a chance of saving Potter before he fell apart completely.

 

When he glanced into green eyes that had lost their spark and had barely any life left in them, he wished he could choose his best friend. But she was his _mother_. He couldn’t be responsible for her death. He couldn’t.

 

Which is why, when the Dark Lord pulled out his biggest weapon, Draco made the choice he did.

 

He would regret it.

 

ooOOoo

 

Severus swept through the halls of Hogwarts, cloak billowing behind him. To run would be thoroughly undignified, but he was close to losing any sense of decorum.

 

The latest Death Eater meeting had brought a number of revelations, not the least of which was the new plan that the Dark Lord intended to set into motion _tonight._ If he didn’t move quickly, the Dark Lord would strike and all of his efforts as a spy would have been for nothing.

 

When he reached the Great Hall he forced himself to slow down; it would not do for certain members of Slytherin to work out that he was passing information and his current state of desperation was a dead giveaway. He drew a breath, pulled on an expressionless mask and stepped into the Hall.

 

His gaze flickered to where Draco sat with Vincent and Gregory at the Slytherin table. As shocking as his turn to the Light and his friendship with Gryffindors had been, Snape had been at a loss to explain Draco’s recent reversion to old habits when he had so clearly cared for Potter. But now that he knew Narcissa was being held hostage to ensure his cooperation, he couldn’t blame the boy. Severus knew better than anyone how powerful love was as a motivator.

 

He made his way to the staff table, hoping that his movements seemed unconcerned and unhurried even as the urge to run still itched at his heels.

 

“Ah Severus,” Albus greeted him. “You are in good time; the main course has just arrived.”

 

Severus couldn’t stomach the thought of food. “May I speak with you Headmaster?”

 

Albus gestured to the chair next to him. A private meeting in his office was more what Severus had in mind, but he knew that to leave with him in the middle of dinner would look suspicious and this news could not wait.

 

He took his seat and went through the motions of filling his plate.

 

“What is it, my boy?” Albus asked.

 

Silently, Severus cast _Muffliato_ around them to mask their conversation.

 

Albus’ eyes twinkled. “A truly remarkable spell, Severus. You always were an inventive child.”

 

Severus waved the distraction aside. “Headmaster, I have urgent news. Vernon Dursley is dead.”

 

“That is unfortunate, but not wholly unexpected. A Muggle could not withstand Voldemort’s interrogation for long.”

 

Severus couldn’t care less about Lily’s brother-in-law – he was a repulsive, magic-hating, abusive son of a bitch, just as Severus’ own father had been. The world was well rid of him.

 

“I suppose we will have to tell young Harry,” Albus sighed. “Cruel as the man might have been, he was still family.”

 

“He does not deserve the title,” Severus snapped. “But we do need to talk to Potter, immediately. Vernon is dead, so the Dark Lord has turned his attention to Dudley.”

 

“The cousin? You think Harry will feel sympathy for him; enough to attempt a rescue?”

 

“No. Absolutely not. I looked into his mind, Headmaster. I saw what he did.”

 

“As I understand it he was always a bit of a bully…”

 

“No. Headmaster, he-” Severus gagged, unable to put to words what he had seen. “He- what he did to Potter, it was- Headmaster, the Dark Lord is going to use that memory. He intends to send it to Harry tonight. Any minute now, while he is in a public space. We have to warn him, help him set up Occlumency shields somehow-”

 

“Voldemort has been tormenting Harry with visions for weeks now and you have not suggested that he resume his lessons with you.”

 

“That was a mistake! He is strong, Headmaster, stronger than any child I have ever encountered, but he _cannot_ cope with this of all memories. This will destroy him. We have to stop it before it is too late.”

 

“What do you imagine Harry will do when he sees it?”

 

“Do? How am I to know? But if it were me I would be making a beeline for the top of the Astronomy tower.”

 

Dumbledore’s face became grave. “I see.” But despite the urgency of the situation, the dire consequences that the Wizarding World would face if Potter was lost, he made no move towards the boy.

 

“Headmaster, you have to act now!”

 

“I am afraid I cannot do that, Severus.”

 

Severus was stunned. Surely he had misheard. “What?”

 

“I cannot interfere.”

 

“This is a crucial moment! You want Potter to be your hero and I am telling you that if he is assaulted by this memory _it will break him._ I am a spy for this very reason – to deliver information that can turn the tide of this war! If you do nothing the Dark Lord will have won.”

 

Albus shook his head. “Not so, Severus. You recall the ring horcrux that we retrieved this summer? It was one of seven horcruxes. Harry and his friends have worked diligently to find them, and five have now been destroyed. Voldemort’s power is waning.”

 

“While a single Horcrux remains he is still immortal.”

 

“You are correct, which is why it is imperative that the remaining horcruxes are destroyed.”

 

“What are they?”

 

“The sixth is Nagini.”

 

Severus grimaced. Killing the snake would not be easy. “And the seventh?”

 

Albus looked out over the crowd of students. Severus followed his gaze… directly to Potter and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

 

Severus felt his heart stop. “No.”

 

He couldn’t believe it. He refused to believe it.

 

“Lily didn’t just save her son,” Albus said. “That night in Godric’s Hollow, her sacrifice created a shield around Harry. When Voldemort tried to kill him, the curse rebounded. It should have killed him, but his horcruxes preserved his life. His body was dead, however. The fragment of his soul needed a new host if it was to survive. And it found one.”

 

“No. Not Harry.” Not Lily’s baby boy. Not her precious child. She had not sacrificed her life for him to be forever cursed.

“I am afraid so. Only a dark and powerful magic can leave a scar such as the one Harry bears. The Killing Curse never touched him; there had to be another explanation.”

 

“Headmaster, it _cannot be._ ”

 

“The evidence has come in the form of Harry’s Parseltongue abilities, the visions he suffers, and most significantly in his inability to learn Occlumency from you. He has shown extraordinary proficiency in other areas of advanced magic – he cast a corporeal Patronus at the age of thirteen, threw off an Imperius Curse at the age of fourteen and has even performed wandless magic as recently as a few months ago… but he could not learn Occlumency? If the visions were external attacks from Voldemort, he should have been able to block him out. But the visions come from within – from the fragment of Voldemort’s soul that lives inside him.”

 

“Harry is a horcrux. The final horcrux.”

 

“Yes he is.”

 

“So if the Dark Lord is to be defeated, Harry must die.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you have known this all along. Everything you said to me about protecting him for Lily’s sake was a lie.”

 

“The fate of the Wizarding World hangs in the balance. If I had let emotions cloud my judgement, I would never have defeated Grindelwald. I cannot let my affection for the boy stop me from doing what needs to be done to ensure Voldemort’s destruction.”

 

“You’re talking about letting an innocent boy die!”

 

“One life, to save the lives of many. An unfortunate but necessary sacrifice.”

 

“You cannot make that choice for him.”

 

“I won’t have to.”

 

Severus stared at the man he had thought he knew, realising that behind the twinkling façade was a cold, ruthless man.

 

“So if Harry decides to jump off the Astronomy tower, you intend to let him.”

 

“He won’t do that, Severus. I have made it my business to get to know him and I am confident I know him well. He could have made the decision to end his own life many times before now, but his sense of duty is too strong. He won’t allow himself to die until he confronts Voldemort, but when that moment comes he will welcome death.”

 

Harry was suicidal. Dumbledore had _raised_ him to be suicidal. Placing him in an abusive household, encouraging his reckless acts of heroism, convincing him that it was his responsibility to face the Dark Lord no matter the cost.

 

Dumbledore had wanted Harry to grow up believing that he was worthless so he would willingly throw his life away at the opportune moment.

 

“I see I have disappointed you, Severus. You may at least take consolation in the fact that when he dies, Harry will be reunited with Lily.”

 

“That is not what she would have wanted.”

 

“You forget, Severus. Lily and James joined the Order to fight against Voldemort. They were willing to die for the cause; now their son shall do no less. I assure you that his sacrifice will not be in vain.”

 

Severus clenched his fists. “He is not dead yet. I can still warn him.”

 

Dumbledore shook his head. “I am sorry, my boy. You are too late.”

 

Severus’ gaze snapped to Harry – just in time to see him scream.

 

ooOOoo


	42. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *M-Rating and WARNINGS apply for this chapter – Graphic depiction of rape, language *

Draco had been watching Potter out of the corner of his eye. He knew showing concern for Potter’s wellbeing would only make Crabbe and Goyle angry, but he couldn’t help it. Potter had rubbed his scar no less than thirteen times since he sat down for dinner. Weasley and Granger hadn’t noticed – they were too busy talking and giggling and staring into each other’s eyes like romance had only just been invented and they were still trying to figure out how it worked.

 

Potter was very clearly trying not to bother them, but though he bit his lip to stay quiet his face would screw up with pain every time his scar burned. Draco recognised the expression from their Quidditch match – Potter had worn it moments before he dropped out of the sky.

 

The Dark Lord was trying to send him another vision. Potter was clearly trying his hardest to fight it but given his chronic insomnia and the deep lines of exhaustion that were etched into his face Draco knew he could not have much strength left.

 

Draco had reserves in his energy stores. He had plenty to give and he had the means to give it, but he knew that Crabbe and Goyle would stop him before he could even reach Potter’s side.

 

Even so, it took every ounce of his self-control to stay in his seat and watch from afar as Potter valiantly fought a losing battle.

 

He couldn’t bear it.

 

Even knowing full well how dangerous it was, Draco threw caution to the wind and extended a thread of magic across the Hall. It wasn’t designed to work long distance; he was supposed to be in physical contact with a person when he sought to bond their magic like this, but he had maintained the bond with Mrs Weasley even when the twins had broken his grip. He had proven that it was possible. He could do this.

 

Maybe Potter would recognise his touch and realise that Draco was trying to help him. Perhaps, without words, Draco could convey that he had not turned voluntarily and that he would still be supporting Potter if he could.

 

The thread was fragile and extending it so far outside of his body was putting his magic under intense strain, but still he persisted. He wove around the other students, seeking Potter’s Core. He wanted to help, he wanted desperately to help. Potter shouldn’t have to do this alone.

 

There! His thread was stretched almost to breaking point, but he had reached Potter. He pushed on, just a little further. His thread brushed against Potter’s magic-

 

A bolt of twisted green and black and red slashed across his vision and in that exact instant, Potter _screamed._

 

Draco and his magic reeled back in shock as Potter clapped both hands to his forehead and toppled backwards out of his chair. He hit the ground hard and kept screaming – a wounded, tortured sound howling from his throat that silenced everyone in the room and drew every eye.

 

Granger and Weasley dropped down beside him.

 

“Harry! Mate, snap out of it!”

 

“Fight him, Harry. You have to fight it!”

 

But he couldn’t hear them. He was too far gone.

 

“Looks like the show has started,” Crabbe grinned. He seized Draco by the back of his robes and dragged him to the front of the crowd of onlookers to get the best view.

 

Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey were pushing their way through the students as well, but they wouldn’t be able to help. He was kicking and writhing so frantically they wouldn’t even be able to move him.

 

“What the hell is wrong with him?” a student asked.

 

“He’s finally lost it.”

 

“Remember last year when he passed out in the middle of our History of Magic exam and started screaming out of nowhere?”

 

“Maybe this time they’ll send him to Saint Mungos. He is in need of some serious help.”

 

“Guess this is what fifteen years of abuse does to a person.”

 

“Blimey he’s loud. Can’t someone cast a Silencing charm on him or something?”

 

Abruptly, Potter’s screams cut off.

 

The Hall fell quiet in anticipation, but whatever trance Potter was stuck in it wasn’t over yet.

 

His mouth opened, but when he spoke it didn’t sound like his voice. It was a low, uncultured drawl.

 

_“You don’t get to refuse, Potter. You have to do whatever I tell you to, just like always. And I’m telling you now-”_

 

Potter jolted, tossing his head in a frantic ‘no’.

 

_“Turn around and strip, Potter. Then kneel, just like you do for your freak boyfriend.”_

 

Murmurs rippled through the hall and more than one pair of eyes turned in Draco’s direction. Skeeter’s article had not been forgotten.

 

Draco felt his mouth go dry.

 

He knew what this was.

 

He was helpless to stop it.

 

_“There’s – no – use – fighting this, Potter, I always – get my way – in the end.”_

Potter lashed out with an elbow and tried to scramble away, but his body jerked to a halt and he flipped helplessly onto his back.

 

_“You’re going to let me do whatever I want, and you’re not going to fight me.”_

 

Draco felt sick. He knew what was happening and he knew what the aftermath looked like. It was bad enough that Potter had experienced this trauma once, but to relive it here, in front of everyone-

_“You know what I want.”_

Potter shifted onto his knees, a puppet to the vision that held his mind hostage. He bent forward, wrists pressed together and stretched out awkwardly in front of him.

 

Images of a bloodied rope tying Potter’s wrists to the bedpost flashed before Draco’s eyes.

 

Potter’s body jerked.

 

_“Oh yeah. Oh. So tight. So hot. That feels – good. So good.”_

Draco felt sick. He knew they were only hearing the words that Dudley had said – the vision had to be his memory, extracted by Voldemort – but he knew the other students weren’t interpreting it that way. They didn’t know that Potter went dead silent when his relatives were hurting him. They didn’t know how enormously overweight Dudley was or how malnourished Potter had been. They didn’t know that Potter had tried to fight him off anyway even though he didn’t stand a chance of winning. They didn’t know that Dudley had threatened to hurt Hedwig. They didn’t know that Potter had suffered so many losses in his life that the thought of losing one more thing he cared about was too much. They didn’t know how lost and hopeless and defeated he had been. They didn’t know how filthy and disgusting and worthless he had felt afterwards.

 

_“You’re so good for me. Pretty little plaything. A toy, just a toy. Bend over, Potter! Spread! Yes, like -oh, exactly like, unhh.”_

Draco gagged and tried to back up but Crabbe held him fast. He was grinning. His eyes held the same sick hunger that Dudley’s had. He was enjoying this; Goyle too. They were getting _off_ on this. Draco was sure he was going to vomit.

_“Like that, Potter? I bet I fill you better than your freak boyfriend does. You like that, don’t you?”_

It just kept going. It wouldn’t stop. The room was frozen in fascinated horror. Some of the prefects had shooed away the first years but everyone else watched with rapt attention, unable to tear their eyes away from the spectacle of Potter’s worst trauma.

 

_“Fuck. Yeah. Uhh. So – fucking – good. Can you feel that? Feel me ripping you in half? So tight, but you won’t be when I’m done. Oh – oh! You’re my good little fucktoy, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”_

Draco wanted to kill him. He wanted to get his hands around that fat neck and choke the life right out of him. He wanted to watch the light fade from his eyes. He wanted Dudley _dead._

 

 _“I can make it good for you too. With just a little_ this _, and a little_ that _, and if I just – see? Oh. Yeah. That’s – that’s the spot. Fuck! You’re enjoying this, aren’t you Potter? You wanted this. You’ve always wanted this. Your freak boyfriend couldn’t do this for you. He couldn’t make you feel this good. I’m going to spoil you for him, Potter, for anyone. Do – you – feel – that?”_

Potter’s body was jerking and shuddering. Memories superimposed over the moment; Draco could practically see the bruises blossoming across his skin and the blood spilling out from between his legs.

 

_“But what if I – yes. Oh yes! Scream for me, Potter. I know that hurts. That fucking HURTS, doesn’t it? Tell me, Potter, scream it! No? You holding back on me, you worthless piece of shit? That’s going to cost you.”_

Potter’s head jerked backwards, strained at an impossible angle like someone had a fistful of his hair.

 

_“Was that a whimper? You going to blubber like a baby, baby Potter? No. You know better, don’t you? We trained you up real good. Such a good fucktoy. You were built for this. It’s all you’re good for.”_

If Draco had been there, if he had seen or heard any of this he would have torn that bastard apart with his bare hands. But he had been too late. Far too late.

 

_“Uh. Wish – this could – last – but – you’re so – damn tight. Fuck Potter. FUCK. Spread a little more – yes! Oh! Just like that! Oh FUCK. FUCK. I’m nearly – yes. Yes! YES. Fuuuccckkkkk…”_

Potter’s body was rigid for a few more seconds. Then he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

 

Silence fell.

 

A few students darted from the Hall and the distant sound of vomiting could be heard.

 

The surrounding faces wore varying expressions of shock, disbelief, disgust, revulsion, horror, pity. Weasley was green and Granger had tears streaming down her face. Potter had never told them.

 

But now everyone knew.

 

This was Potter’s worst nightmare.

 

Draco had the sudden urge to hit Potter with a Stunning spell and whisk him back to his dorm before he could wake up and realise what had happened. Maybe, if he had time to recover from the vision first the revelation that his secret was out wouldn’t be so hard to take.

 

But Potter groaned and rolled over. His eyes fluttered open.

 

“What…?”

 

Granger burst into tears. “Oh Harry-”

 

“Hermione, don’t-” Weasley warned, but it was too late.

 

Potter stared at her for a long moment before his gaze swept over the crowd that had gathered around him.

 

His face bleached stark white. He sat up and promptly vomited, all over himself and all over the floor. Potter’s back arched and heaved as his body violently rejected every ounce of food he had eaten that day. Spasms wracked his body, wrenching through his gut even when he had nothing left to spew.

 

Madam Pomfrey rushed forward.

 

“No!” Potter flung out a hand to stop her and magic blasted her backwards. McGonagall caught her.

 

“Potter-”

 

“Don’t touch me!” Potter shrieked. Candle flames flared hot overhead.

 

Granger struggled to speak through her tears. “Harry, please, calm down, let us-”

 

“No!” Magic pulsed out in a wave, shoving everyone away from him.

 

“Harry-”

 

The floor beneath them began to shake.

 

“Harry-”

 

But he wasn’t listening. Magic howled through the Great Hall; the castle that had stood for hundreds of years was on the verge of shaking apart.

 

Helpless, Granger searched frantically through the crowd. Her gaze landed on Draco and all of the anger she’d held towards him was gone, replaced with utter desperation. “Draco, _please._ ”

 

Potter spun to look at him, eyes wild.

 

Surreptitiously, Goyle shoved the tip of his wand into Draco’s back.

 

“Remember your mum,” Crabbe hissed in his ear. “Screw this up and she’s dead. No reversals, no take-backs.”

 

Internally, Draco felt his heart tear in two.

 

But outwardly, he laughed.

 

Crabbe and Goyle jointed in with loud guffaws and soon most of Slytherin house was laughing.

 

Astoria wasn’t. She looked at Draco with a mixture of shock, disgust and abject disappointment on her face.

 

Weasley and Granger were furious. In fact, most of Gryffindor house was up in arms in an instant, throwing themselves at the Slytherins and starting an all-out war in the middle of the Great Hall.

 

But in the midst of the chaos was Potter. He stared at Draco in a long, frozen moment.

 

Then he vanished.

 

“Harry!” Granger screamed. “Harry, come back!”

 

“Where is he? Did he use his Cloak?”

 

“No, he doesn’t carry it with him. He must have Disapparated!”

 

“But you told me you can’t Disapparate inside Hogwarts!”

 

“I know what I said! But most people can’t perform magic without a wand either. He’s gone, Ron, you saw him disappear into thin air!”

 

“Well where the hell did he go?”

 

“I don’t know! I don’t think he knows. He’s not thinking straight. Ron we have to find him!”

 

“Where do we even begin to look?”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

“If he’s still inside the castle or the grounds he’ll be on the map-”

 

“He’s not inside Hogwarts, Ron. Remember back at your house? He ran far and fast, he wanted _out_ , he wanted to be as far away as possible. He’s gone, he’s gone outside the wards, I’m sure of it-”

 

“But if he left the wards, then You-Know-Who-”

 

“I know! Ron, we have to get him back!”

 

“But by the time we reach the gates-”

 

“I don’t care! We have to _do_ something!”

 

Weasley seized Granger’s hand and pulled her out of the crowd. They sprinted from the Hall, but they wouldn’t make it in time.

 

Potter was long gone, and it was all Draco’s fault.

 

Goyle clapped Draco on the back. “Nice work, Malfoy. You performed _beautifully._ ”

 

“No wonder the Dark Lord wanted us to break you so bad. One week without you and Potter fell completely to pieces. Honestly, that was _pathetic._ ”

 

Draco’s fists clenched. “You have no idea what he’s been through,” he growled. “You have no idea how hard he has been trying to keep it together while his whole world has gone to hell around him. You have no idea how tired and worn down he has been lately. You have no idea how many times he has wanted to give up but has kept going anyway. You have no idea how brave and strong and-”

 

“We don’t care how amazing you think your boyfriend was. We did our job. He’s as good as dead.”

 

“Hope you enjoyed riding him while you had the chance, Malfoy. Sounds like he was a _fabulous_ lay.”

 

Crabbe and Goyle snickered. Draco wanted to punch those smug grins off their faces. How dare they treat rape as a _joke_?

 

“To bed, all of you!” McGonagall was yelling. Sharp spells snapped from her wand, forcing brawlers to break apart. “I will deal with you later! Off with you, now! Any student not in bed in the next ten minutes will be in detention with me for a month!”

 

The majority of the students scattered but the Seniors from Potter’s DA group stayed exactly where they were.

 

“What about Harry?”

 

“We have to find Harry!”

 

McGonagall looked strained. “Yes, we will do all we can but I must insist that you-”

 

“We’re not going anywhere until we have Harry back!” Ginny insisted.

 

Goyle laughed loudly. “He’s not coming back you blithering idiot. The Dark Lord will have him by now. There’s nothing any of you can do.”

 

Ginny’s face transformed with a dark fury. Her wand was a blur as she spat a stunning spell right at his face. He went down hard and the wand that had been digging into Draco’s back spun away across the floor.

 

Crabbe lunged forward. “Why you little-”

 

A second jet of red light shot across the room; Neville’s face was grim as his spell dropped Crabbe to the ground.

 

A dozen DA wands turned on Draco.

 

“The next one is for you,” Neville warned.

 

Draco raised his hands in surrender. He didn’t try to say a word in his own defence; he knew what he had done was inexcusable.

 

Granger and Weasley came running back into the Hall. Granger’s face was streaked with sweat and tears in equal measure; Weasley just collapsed to his knees, wheezing.

 

“Death Eaters,” Granger choked out. “They were lying in wait. Harry was fighting them but – he got hit by a spell and – and we were too far away, we tried but – but we were too late. They took him.”

 

Granger looked about ready to crumple but suddenly Luna was there beside her. She laid a gentle hand on her arm and said simply, “We’ll get him back.”

 

Granger sucked in an unsteady breath, but then she visibly took a hold of herself. She straightened and looked directly at Dumbledore. “What is the rescue plan?”

 

“I am sorry, Miss Granger, but I’m afraid we still have the same problem as before. We do not know where Voldemort is.”

 

“That’s not true,” Draco said.

 

All eyes turned to him.

 

He swallowed. “Malfoy Manor. I’m almost certain of it.”

 

Granger marched straight over to him and punched him square in the chin.

 

He stumbled back, a hand flying up to comfort his jaw. He had a sudden memory of Granger punching him back in third year; it hurt even worse this time but he knew he deserved it.  


“I’m sorry. I-”

 

“Harry _trusted_ you. We all did! How could you do that to him?”

 

“I didn’t want – I didn’t have a choice!”

 

“Don’t try to give excuses. What you did-”

 

“I know! I know I hurt him and I know he will never be able to forgive me, okay? But if you want to save him you have to listen to me. The Death Eaters will have taken him to Malfoy Manor.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

Weasley had recovered his breath; he came to stand beside Granger and he looked tempted to throw in a punch of his own. “Why do you think we would be stupid enough to trust you?”

 

“Here!” Draco thrust a photograph into his hand. “That’s our secret cellar in the background. Ask your father if you don’t believe me, he was in the party that raided it as I recall. The Death Eaters are using it as a dungeon.”

 

Weasley and Granger stared at the photo and then looked back at him.

 

“That’s your mother, isn’t it,” Granger said.

 

Draco found he couldn’t talk around the lump in his throat. Crabbe and Goyle might be unconscious now, but as soon as they woke up and found out what he had done his mother’s life would be forfeit.

 

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she said quietly. “We didn’t know.”

 

“So you _were_ under duress.” Weasley grimaced. “Sorry, mate.”

 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Draco said. “What’s done is done.”

 

“But we know where she is – where Harry is! We can save both of them!”

 

“I appreciate your optimism, Granger, but you forget. I grew up in that house. I know how heavily defended it is and that is not even counting the added security that the Dark Lord will have put in place. It might as well be a fortress.”

 

Two of the people he cared about most, and he had doomed both of them.

 

“Dumbledore will know how to get us in, right sir?” Weasley asked. “We can call in the Order, Tonks may be able to get some Aurors to join us and we’ll storm the castle just like we talked about.”

 

“You can count on our help,” Ernie Macmillan said. The other DA Seniors all nodded their agreement.

 

“Your loyalty to Harry and your bravery in the face of grave peril is admirable, children, but I am afraid there will be no rescue mission.”

 

They all stared at Dumbledore in shock.

 

“What on earth are you talking about, Headmaster?” Professor McGonagall said, putting voice to their disbelief. “Of course we are going to rescue the boy! He does not stand a chance on his own.”

 

“I have my reasons. You must trust me.”

 

“No!” Draco snapped. “No more ‘trust’, no more blind faith. You’ve been yanking us all around like krups on a leash, expecting us to do what you want without giving any explanation. We will not stand for it anymore.”

 

“Tell them, Headmaster,” Snape said. “Or I will.”

 

Dumbledore shot a glare at the potions master, but the atmosphere in the Hall did not leave room for refusal.

 

“As you wish. I believe Mr and Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy, Mr Longbottom and Miss Lovegood are all familiar with Horcruxes?”

 

They murmured their agreement but everyone else just looked confused.

 

“For the rest of you, Horcruxes are the secret to Voldemort’s immortality. Using Dark Magic, he split his soul seven times and hid each piece in a horcrux for safe keeping. While any horcrux remains, he cannot be killed.”

 

“We have already destroyed five of them,” Granger said. “And I’m sorry, Professor, but you misspoke – he split his soul six times. Nagini is the sixth and the fragment that remains in You-Know-Who is the seventh piece.”

 

“It was Voldemort’s intention to create only six, but I am afraid that there are indeed seven horcruxes. The other was an accident and I do not think even he knows of its existence.”

 

“What has this got to do with rescuing Harry?” Weasley asked. “If there is still another horcrux to find then we need to get Harry out of there so we can strike again when You-Know-Who has no defences left! As it stands, Harry hasn’t a hope of defeating him!”

 

“Unfortunately, if we do rescue Harry then Voldemort’s defences will remain firmly intact.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

Dumbledore looked at them all with big sad eyes. “I am deeply sorry. But the truth is that Harry is the final horcrux.”

 

There was a stunned silence.

 

“What?” Weasley blurted.

 

“That’s impossible!” Granger exclaimed.

 

“You must be mistaken, surely,” McGonagall said.

 

“Harry can’t be a horcrux, he just can’t!” Ginny insisted.

 

But for Draco, all the pieces finally clicked into place.

 

“He is,” Draco said.

 

Really, he should have known all along. He had Seen it more than once. Perhaps the first time he could be forgiven for not knowing what it was, having never heard of a horcrux when he glimpsed that tumultuous black storm in Potter’s mind. But he had sensed that dark core of power when they had been hurtling towards their deaths during that Quidditch game and he had drawn on the twisted magic to shield their fall. Later he had tried to explain it away as an adrenaline and panic-soaked mind playing tricks on him, but he had been wilfully deluding himself. He hadn’t wanted to accept the possibility because he had known what it meant. It meant that either all their efforts to hunt down the horcruxes were in vain, or Potter had to die.

 

He had Seen the soul fragment again tonight, just before the vision had struck. Still he had refused to believe. But now that Dumbledore had confirmed it, there was no denying the truth.

 

“Potter is a horcrux.”

 

The others stared at him in shock. He had been very vocal with his disagreements with the Headmaster this year; they knew he wouldn’t agree with him lightly. Draco would have given anything to be able to say with confidence that Dumbledore was wrong – but he knew better.

 

“How can you say that?” Ginny demanded.

 

“I Saw it inside him. A soul fragment, just like the others in the horcruxes we’ve found. Twisted and evil, living in him like a parasite.” It made Draco sick just thinking about it.

 

“Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

 

“I didn’t know what I was seeing… I didn’t want to know.”

 

“But Harry… Harry’s good,” Granger said, trying to find a way to prove it wasn’t true. “He’s a good person. If there was a horcrux in him he’d be – different. It would change him.”

 

Being in close proximity to a horcrux was enough to send a normal person on a homicidal rampage, but Potter had been living with one inside him for fifteen years and he was still the wizard who was kind to house-elves, refused to seek bloody retribution against the Muggles who had hurt him, loved his friends deeply and was willing to sacrifice his own life to save others. “I guess Potter is stronger than any of us realised.”

 

“But… if Harry really is a horcrux, then that means…”

 

“I am afraid so,” Dumbledore said heavily. “If Lord Voldemort is to be defeated, Harry must die. I am so sorry, children.”

 

Granger sat down heavily in a nearby chair, looking shell-shocked. Weasley put a hand on her shoulder in an effort to ground her, or perhaps himself. Both of them had tears in their eyes.

 

Looking around the room, Draco saw that the others seemed to be mourning as well, as though Potter was already dead.

 

But it wasn’t grief that Draco was feeling.

 

He was angry. He was _furious._ “No!” he snapped. “That is the biggest load of hogshit I have ever heard. You worked out Potter was a horcrux, and you what – wrote him off as a necessary casualty of war? How long have you known? And in all that time, you never thought to find another way?”

 

“There is no other way,” Dumbledore said.

 

“I refuse to believe that. Maybe the horcrux can be removed.”

 

“Not without killing the host. You have a low opinion of me, Mr Malfoy, but despite what you might think I do not wish to see Harry die any more than you do. I did explore all other possibilities, but the unfortunate reality is that the only way to kill Lord Voldemort is to destroy his horcruxes – all of them. And that includes Harry.”

 

“So we don’t kill Voldemort.”

 

“Lord Voldemort is the single greatest threat the Wizarding World has faced since Grindelwald. He has to be defeated or our entire world will be cast into darkness. Muggles will be slaughtered by the thousands, Muggle-borns will be persecuted and any witch or wizard who dares to defy his rule will be killed. Is that worth a single life?”

 

“I’m not saying the we should let You-Know-Who run rampant, I’m just saying we don’t have to kill him. You didn’t kill Grindelwald, did you, sir? He is imprisoned in Nurmengard.”

 

“That was an entirely different set of circumstances-”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“There is a prophecy this time, Mr Malfoy. It clearly states that _‘either must die at the hand of the other’_. Lord Voldemort will kill Harry and in doing so he will sow the seeds of his own destruction.”

 

“And then what? You will sweep in and claim the victory?”

 

“I will do what I must to ensure the safety of this country’s citizens.”

 

“What about Potter’s safety? He doesn’t deserve to die. He has been through far too much already.”

 

“Do you not think he will welcome peace? And end to the torment? He is a broken man, Mr Malfoy. Death would only be a blessing.”

 

“He’s a _boy_ , with his whole life ahead of him! He can recover from this if given half a chance. He just needs this war to be over. He needs us to _help_ him.”

 

“Lord Voldemort will not surrender. He will not allow himself to be captured. And his Death Eaters will not stand down while he lives. No, Mr Malfoy, this is a case of kill or be killed.”

 

“We will find a way.”

 

“There is no time. Lord Voldemort will not risk Harry slipping from his grasp once again. He will have his fun and then he will kill him. I give him half an hour at maximum.”

 

“Then we buy him time!”

 

“How? Face it, Mr Malfoy. Harry was lost as soon as he left the protection of this castle. The best we can do now is make sure that he does not die in vain.”

 

“ _I made him a PROMISE!”_ Draco yelled. He was choking up but he fought to regain control. “I promised I would not let anyone hurt him, not again.” Four times. He had almost lost Potter four times; when Vernon Dursley had tried to smash his skull in, when the Death Eaters had nearly captured him at the Burrow, when they had fought for their lives in Hogsmeade, and when he had plummeted from the sky during their ill-fated Quidditch match. He couldn’t lose him. Salazar help him, he was gone and Draco _couldn’t._ He couldn’t.

 

“I made his mother the same promise,” Snape said solemnly. “I am with you, Draco Malfoy.”

 

“Me too,” Granger said.

 

“Me three,” Weasley said.

 

The others voiced their support and with them behind him, Draco faced down the man that was willing to let Harry die.

 

“We save Harry,” he said firmly.

 

Dumbledore raised his hands in surrender. “I cannot condone this suicide mission, but it seems clear to me that neither can I stop you.”

 

Draco glowered at him. “If you will not help us, get the hell out.”

 

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. Draco knew that he thought they would fail. He thought they would all die in the attempt. Draco intended to prove him wrong.

 

Once Dumbledore was gone, Granger turned anxiously to Draco. “But what if he’s right about V-Voldemort not waiting to kill him?”

 

Draco had a half-formed plan. It was desperate and dangerous and could backfire spectacularly, but it was the only thing he could think of that would give Voldemort pause.

 

“Professor Snape,” he said. “I want you to go to the Dark Lord and tell him.”

 

“Tell him what?”

 

ooOOoo


	43. Broken

Harry was dead.

 

The fact that his heart was still beating was just a minor technicality; one he was sure would soon be rectified.

 

He had been forced to his knees on a surprisingly plush and ornate carpet that spanned the length of an enormous hallway. Pale-faced portraits stared down at him from the walls. They bore familiar features – a few had high cheekbones, some had platinum blond hair and others had cold grey eyes.

 

He didn’t want to think about who they reminded him of.

 

He could feel heavy hands on his shoulders, pinning him down. Masked Death Eaters had been lying in wait for him just outside the gates of Hogwarts; they would probably be up for promotion now. Apparently he was known for trying to run away from his problems, or for running straight into trouble. It was the kind of thing a mother would despair over, if she had still been around.

 

She would probably give him a lecture for it when he saw her. It wouldn’t be long. Voldemort had already been summoned.

 

A bronze-handled door at the end of the hallway slowly creaked open.

 

Harry felt a stabbing pain in his skull. He was used to the sensation by now; his scar had ached almost constantly for the past month. The pain was stronger now and he knew what that meant, but it didn’t bother him.

 

He should be afraid, but his heart didn’t even bother to pick up its pace. If anything it was slowing down, preparing to stop altogether.

 

The temperature of the room dropped a few degrees as Voldemort stepped across the threshold.

 

Harry listened to the slow, soft footfalls approaching and absently wondered why Voldemort never wore shoes. Maybe they didn’t have his size. Or maybe he couldn’t find a style that suited him. Harry tried to imagine him in a pair of cowboy boots, sneakers or slippers.

 

Bare feet were somehow more menacing.

 

Harry chose to stare at those pale toes rather than look up into the face he used to see in his nightmares.

 

“Harry Potter.”

 

The cold, high voice would normally send a shiver down his spine. He was too tired.

 

“You have done well to evade me for as long as you have. I confess that I hold a great deal of admiration for your tenacity and courage, but your defeat was inevitable. None could withstand me for long.”

 

Harry sighed. “I know I won’t be able to stand your monologuing for much longer.”

 

“Even after all you have experienced, you still don’t know better than to give attitude to those who hold your life in their hands.”

 

Harry shrugged. “I know you’re going to kill me, Tom. Not much I can do about it.” They had taken his wand, naturally, and he doubted any accidental magic was going to come out to play (it only seemed to happen when he was upset and he didn’t think he could muster enough emotion any more). There wasn’t going to be any dramatic show down. He was going to be killed in cold blood. At least it would be quick.

 

Voldemort crouched down in front of him and reluctantly Harry glanced up into red eyes.

 

“They truly have broken you, haven’t they? It is a shame. You had remarkable spirit, and such power for one so young. The Muggles should never have been able to treat you the way they did.”

 

“Your concern is touching,” Harry said dryly.

 

“When I rise to power, Muggles will be put in their rightful place. Your story of neglect and mistreatment at the hands of lesser creatures will not be repeated. Wizards will be treated with the dignity and respect they deserve.”

 

“That’s a great comfort.”

 

“I hate to kill you, Harry Potter. It is a tremendous waste of potential. If not for the prophecy, I would much prefer to induct you into my ranks.”

 

“I would never join you, Tom,” Harry said tiredly. “You know that. I despise everything you stand for. And then there’s the little matter of all the people you’ve killed. People I cared about. My parents, for example.”

 

“I hope to soon bring an end to this needless spilling of magical blood.”

 

“People will never just sit back and let you rule as a tyrant.”

 

“Once you are gone, your followers will lose hope. They will see that there is no point in resisting me. After all, only one held the power to vanquish me, and you will soon be dead.”

 

“That’s the funny thing about people. They don’t give up so easy.”

 

“Not easily, no. But apply enough pressure and they crack. You yourself are a prime example, are you not?”

 

Harry glowered, but he couldn’t argue because the truth was that he _had_ given up. He was too tired to do this anymore; to stand up when the world was determined to tear him down, to put on the façade when all of his secrets had already been laid bare, to gather the strength to keep moving when every breath was a struggle, to face each sunrise knowing that the day would bring no relief. He was done. He just wanted this over.

 

Voldemort leaned in with a slow and gleeful malice. “As you have broken, so shall they break.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Gloating. Classy. How long are you going to make me listen to this? Only, I’ve been running short on sleep lately and if you ramble on for much longer I am liable to start snoring.”

 

“So eager to die?”

 

 _Yes,_ he admitted silently. _Please._ He knew he was letting everyone down, but he couldn’t care anymore. He couldn’t be the hero they wanted him to be. He was just Harry, just an orphan with more scars than he could count and nobody who really loved him. He was broken, beaten, defeated. He had reached the limit of his endurance and it was time for him to rest. At last. “It’s been a long time coming.”

 

“True. You were supposed to die that night fifteen years ago.” Voldemort rose and drew his wand. He pointed it directly between Harry’s eyes. “Are there any final words you would like to say?”

 

"Nah." Who would care to hear them? Everyone knew what he was now. A dirty, disgusting freak. The world was well rid of trash like him.

 

“Very well. Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

 

Harry let his eyes flutter shut.

 

“ _Avada Keda_ -”

 

“MY LORD!”

 

The door behind Harry burst open, making him jump. He tried to turn around to see who had entered but the Death Eaters were still holding him fast. They weren’t taking any chances.

 

Irritation seeped into Voldemort’s tone. “I am in the middle of something important. Can it not wait?”

 

“No, my lord.”

 

Harry recognised that voice.

 

Voldemort sighed with impatience. “What is it, Severus?”

 

"I have urgent information for you, my lord. It pertains to the boy.”

 

Voldemort eyed him. “Rather convenient timing, Severus. Do not make me question your loyalty; I would hate to stain the carpet with your blood.”

 

“When you hear what I have to say you will be greatly relieved that I arrived when I did, before you could make a terrible mistake.”

 

“And what would that be?”

 

“You cannot kill the boy.”

 

“The blood protection no longer stands, Severus. His mother’s sacrifice dwells in my blood also. I have made sure that he is isolated and alone so none can stand to die in his place. I assure you that, this time, my spell shall kill him once and for all.”

 

“My lord, forgive me for not being clear. While I am indeed confident that you possess the power and ability to triumph over Potter, you _must not_ kill him. Your life depends on it.”

 

Voldemort stilled. “Explain.”

 

“My lord, you may not wish others to overhear this.”

 

“The guards stay. I will not have Potter escaping again.”

 

Snape bowed respectfully. “As you wish, sire.” He took a breath. “This is about your horcruxes.”

 

Harry went rigid with shock. He had not cared to hope for a rescue, but he had not been expecting betrayal. Malfoy had vouched for Snape – but then, Malfoy himself had turned out to be a traitor. It shouldn’t have come as any surprise, but Harry found he was disappointed. Once, and just for a moment, Harry had thought he glimpsed something in Snape’s eyes, some measure of caring. When Snape had uncovered the truth about how the Dursleys had treated him, for a second it had seemed he wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort.

 

Of course it had been a lie. Snape and Malfoy were both experts at pretence. Harry had been a fool to ever trust them.

 

Now, it seemed, the Light would pay the price.

 

Voldemort’s eyes widened. His wand shot off two spells in quick succession and Harry flinched, but belatedly he heard the spell ‘Obliviate’ and realised the spells had struck his guards.

 

“Leave us!” Voldemort snapped.

 

They bowed and hurried out.

 

Harry stayed where he was. Even if he tried to run he knew he would not get very far.

 

Voldemort whirled on Snape. “Where did you hear that term?”

 

“From Dumbledore. I am sorry, my lord, but he knows.”

 

“He told you?”

 

“He told Potter, and his little friends. They have been hunting them down all year.”

 

“Why are you only telling me now?”

 

“I am sorry, my lord, I did not know! When Potter vanished from the Great Hall there was talk of a rescue, until Dumbledore told us about the horcruxes.”

 

“They are fools if they think I am vulnerable. I have delved deeper into the Dark Arts than any before.”

 

“They know you made more than a single horcrux, my lord. One by one, they have found and destroyed them.”

 

“How many?”

 

“Five so far.”

 

“ _Five?!”_

“Yes, my lord. The Diary was destroyed by Potter in his second year at Hogwarts. Dumbledore destroyed the ring at Marvolo’s cottage. They also found Slytherin’s locket and Ravenclaw’s diadem, I know not how, but Hufflepuff’s cup they stole from Bellatrix’s vault.”

 

“ _Impossible!”_

 

“Dumbledore had the evidence in his office. The horcruxes have been destroyed and they know that there are only two remaining.”

 

Harry frowned and Voldemort seemed equally as puzzled.

 

“Two?”

 

“Yes my lord. They suspect Nagini. And the other-”

 

“There is no other! I must fetch Nagini immediately and encase her in as many layers of protection as possible-”

 

“Potter, my lord.”

 

“What about Potter?”

 

“He is the seventh horcrux.”

 

Harry wasn’t sure who was more stunned by the revelation; him or Voldemort.

 

“That is a ridiculous notion!” Voldemort scoffed. “A horcrux cannot be created by accident. A murder must be committed, a part of the soul must be sliced off and it must be bound to a suitable container.”

 

“That night in Godric’s Hollow, my lord. When you murdered L-Lily Potter, and then the Killing Curse intended for the boy rebounded upon you. A soul fragment was severed and it latched onto the only living thing it could find.”

 

Harry raised a trembling hand to his scar. Could it be true? Could there be a mangled part of Voldemort’s soul living inside him?

 

“What proof have you of this?”

 

“None, except that you have always shared a peculiar bond with the boy and he possesses the ability to speak Parseltongue despite having no Slytherin lineage.”

 

“That is not sufficient evidence. I will not take Dumbledore’s word on it when I know full well he is trying to use you to delay Potter’s execution.”

 

“My lord… Draco Malfoy confirmed it.”

 

Harry’s heart thudded once, painfully, at the name.

 

“You know of his father’s abilities as a natural-born Centraliquist? Draco possesses the same gift. He can see the internal workings of magic and he has Seen the soul fragment that resides within Potter. As you know, my lord, he has every reason to be telling the truth.”

 

“Indeed. So the boy really is a horcrux.”

 

“I am afraid so, my lord.”

 

So Draco had known. Harry’s own death was the key to destroying Voldemort. But he hadn’t said anything. Harry didn’t try to decipher what that meant.

 

He only knew that he had to die if the Light side was to have any chance of winning this war.

 

Mustering every ounce of courage and energy he had left, Harry jumped to his feet and made a break for the door. He didn’t expect to get that far – a flash of green light and that would be the end of it.

 

But there was a flash of white instead. Harry’s arms and legs snapped together and he crashed to the ground. He tried frantically to move but his limbs weren’t cooperating; he was as stiff as a board.

 

He realised with a rush of horror that Voldemort had hit him with the Full-Body-Bind Curse.

 

Voldemort hadn’t killed him.

 

Soft footfalls approached. Voldemort used his toes to flip Harry over onto his back. Harry could only stare helplessly up at him as he leaned over and traced the lightning-bolt scar with his nail.

 

“Harry Potter,” he breathed. The air ghosted over his skin, but Harry couldn’t even shudder with revulsion. “The Boy-Who-Lived. It seems that if I am to remain immortal you must continue to live up to your name. If I had known sooner, I would have killed you and worked to secure the other horcruxes. As it stands, however, it seems my situation is too precarious to take such a risk. You must remain here with me, safe and protected… and suitably restrained.” He raised non-existent eyebrows. “My plan to cripple you has gone awry. I see now that you are all too eager to die, and I am afraid that cannot be allowed.”

 

No. No, no, no, no. Death, Harry could cope with. Not life. He couldn’t go on living, he didn’t have the strength to go on living. Especially not here, not like this, not as a prisoner of the wizard who had murdered his parents, not for all of eternity. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to die, he was supposed to die, he needed to die! The thought of dying had been his light at the end of the tunnel and it had been cruelly snatched from him. He would never see his parents again. He would never be at peace. And worse, he would live every day knowing that Voldemort was alive because of him. He had been too much of a coward to just throw himself from the top of the Astronomy Tower; he had wanted people to think he had gone out fighting and now the world would pay the price. The _‘power the Dark Lord knew not’_ had been his ability to kill himself and he had missed his chance. Now Voldemort would take over, darkness would fall, thousands would die and it would be all his fault.

 

 _Kill me,_ Harry pleaded silently. He pressed the thought into the bond he knew they shared. A part of Voldemort was living inside him and if he could vomit he would, but he was utterly helpless. All he could do was beg. _Please. Please kill me._ A single tear leaked from the corner of his eye – the first tear he could remember crying in years. There was no pride, no dignity, not even the remnants of the strict training he had received under the Dursleys. He knew he wasn’t allowed to cry, he knew what a shameful sign of weakness it was, he knew he should have been humiliated to break down like this in front of his sworn enemy, but he had nothing left. The tear rolled into his hairline, leaving a wet trail in its wake. _Please._

 

Some tiny sliver of emotion crossed over Voldemort’s face. “I am sorry, Harry Potter,” he said. The words seemed to surprise him; Harry was used to alien feelings slicking like oil over his soul at random intervals, but he doubted that Voldemort had ever felt the same in reverse. It wasn’t enough to sway him though.

 

Voldemort stood up abruptly. “Severus, throw Potter into the dungeon. Chain him to the wall – ensure his wrists are tightly bound and that he cannot reach anything that could be used to self-harm. Assign two guards to the door and Bellatrix to the room itself to keep a direct eye on the boy.”

 

“Do you wish me to lock her in?”

 

“Yes. If she objects, tell her I know that her vault was broken into and she is lucky I have not killed her on the spot.”

 

Severus bowed. “Yes, my lord.” He cast a silent spell on Harry which raised his rigid body three feet from the ground, then flicked his wand to send Harry floating ahead of him. All Harry could do was stare at the ornate ceilings as they rolled by and try desperately to will his heart to stop beating.

 

As he passed under a large crystal chandelier he tried to rattle it with his magic so it would fall on him, but though the crystals shivered the chandelier held. He soon found himself gliding down a set of stairs into a dark room.

 

“Who’s there?” asked a feminine voice that somehow sounded both demanding and fearful all at once.

 

“You have company, my lady.”

 

“More horrid Muggles?”

 

“No. _Lumos._ ”

 

Harry heard a sharp gasp but all he could see was a plain, dark ceiling.

 

“It cannot be,” the woman whispered.

 

“You underestimate the Dark Lord,” Severus said coldly. There was a rattle of chains and Harry felt his legs being pushed down so he could float upright. He was shoved unceremoniously against the wall and Snape made short work of clinching tight manacles around his wrists. When his feet were similarly bound, Snape released the Levitation spell and Harry’s full weight dropped heavily in his chains. After a beat of hesitation, Snape muttered the counter-curse to the body-bind.

 

Harry immediately spat in his face. “Traitor!”

 

Snape removed the saliva with an unconcerned flick of his wand. “So you don’t get any ideas,” he said, and cast a cushioning spell at the manacles. For a moment Harry thought he was offering a tiny measure of comfort, until he jerked his arms and realised that he couldn’t cut his wrists against the edge of the metal. “And before you think of starving yourself, be assured that we can spell nutritive potions directly into your stomach. I am afraid you will have to stay very much alive, Potter.”

 

Harry glared hatefully at him and silently vowed to find another way.

 

“Bellatrix will be joining you shortly. I will leave you to get acquainted.” Snape shook the light from the end of his wand so it hung in the air, then swept up the stairs and let the door clang shut behind him.

 

Warily, Harry shifted his gaze to see which unfortunate soul shared his dungeon. Haunted blue eyes stared back at him, framed by straggly platinum blond hair.

 

“Harry Potter,” she said.

 

He could hardly believe what he was seeing. “Mrs Malfoy?”

 

She drew herself straight and tried to tuck her hair behind her ears, perhaps in an attempt to appear more dignified. But her shoulders fell and she gave a weary sigh. “What is left of her.”

 

ooOOoo


	44. Malfoy Manor

“Kill me,” Harry said without preamble.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Quickly, before Bellatrix gets here. You’ll have to choke me. Once I pass out you need to hold it as long as you can to make sure I can’t come back. Crush the throat if you can.”

 

“Potter!” Mrs Malfoy looked horrified, but he didn’t have time for her affected sensibilities.

 

“This is important! You have to do it now, before it’s too late.”

 

“Potter, I cannot possibly do that. Why would you want me to-”

 

“I haven’t got time to explain. You have to kill me. I won’t struggle.”

 

“I am not going to kill you.”

 

“Please!”

 

“I cannot. My son would never forgive me.”

 

“Your son… Draco?” He tried not to flinch at the name. “Oh, no, he’d have no problem with it at all. He’d probably thank you.”

 

She shook her head. “My son cares about you.”

 

“No he doesn’t. He was pretending. Look, we don’t have a lot of time-”

 

“Pretending? I know my son, Mr Potter. He has never cared about anyone, besides his father and I, the way he cares about you. He would die for you – and nearly has on a few occasions, as I understand it.”

 

“All a part of the ruse.”

 

“He is a Slytherin! Self-preservation comes first among our ilk. We would never willingly place our own lives in jeopardy unless it was for something we truly valued more than our own lives.”

 

“I’d like to believe you, but I already learned my lesson about trusting a Malfoy. I don’t need to be hurt like that again.”

 

“Draco never would have wanted to hurt you, Potter.”

 

“Well for someone who didn’t ‘want’ to he did a damn good job.”

 

Harry remembered Malfoy laughing. Everything else was a confused blur of terror and blood and nausea and pain and panic, but there had been a single moment of clarity when he had looked at Malfoy and Malfoy had _laughed._

 

Until that moment, there had been a tiny flicker of hope still burning inside him. Malfoy had returned to the taunts and insults and cruel humour at his expense, but he hadn’t mentioned the rape. He could have told everyone, he could have called Harry some of the same horrible names that Dudley had that night or invented a few of his own, but he never went anywhere near it. Foolish as it had been, a small part of Harry had dared to hope.

 

But then he had laughed.

 

“He doesn’t care, Mrs Malfoy,” Harry said quietly. “No one does. So please, do me and the rest of the world a favour. Kill me.”

 

“Potter, I ask you to think about why I might be locked down here, and then think about what you would do if you were in Draco’s position.”

 

Harry frowned. “I don’t-”

 

The door to the cellar creaked open. Bellatrix strutted down the stairs with all the arrogance she could muster, but there was a crazed look in her eyes and she jumped when the door clanked shut behind her.

 

At the sight of her, Harry felt a deep rage bubble up within him. This was the first time they had met since she murdered Sirius. If Harry hadn’t been so tightly restrained, he would have tried to kill her with his bare hands.

 

“Guess your beloved Lord Voldemort isn’t too happy with you, huh?” Harry asked instead.

 

She shrieked in outrage and whipped out her wand.

 

“Ah-ah, Bellatrix,” Harry tutted. “If you hurt me you’ll only make him angrier. I’m worth rather a lot to him now, you know. Rather more than you.”

 

“How _dare_ you!”

 

Harry raised and dropped his shoulders in a slight movement that was supposed to resemble a shrug but was rather hard to pull off, chained as he was. “I’m just saying it like it is. He wants me to stick around. You might even say that he values my company. If he had to choose between you and me – he’d choose me.”

 

“ _I_ am his most _loyal,_ most _devoted_ servant-”

 

“Yeah you were, until you screwed it up,” Harry said. “Entrusted with one of Voldemort’s most prized possessions, and you just let someone waltz right into your vault and take it.”

 

“That’s _her_ fault!” Bellatrix snarled, pointing her wand towards Mrs Malfoy.

 

Harry blinked. He had forgotten that she was the one who had stolen the cup for them. Draco had asked her to. But if he had just been pretending to help them, why involve his mother? Surely this isn’t what he would have wanted for her, to be locked in her own cellar.

 

“You can’t blame me for your own incompetence, Bella,” Mrs Malfoy said coolly.

 

“You watch your tongue!”

 

“Why? If you were going to kill me for stealing the cup you would have done so already.”

 

That was a good point, actually. Why hadn’t Voldemort killed her on the spot when he found out what she had done?

 

Only… he hadn’t known about the horcrux until Snape told him, and it looked like Mrs Malfoy had been down here for weeks.

 

“Draco’s job is done,” Bellatrix said. “We have the boy. We don’t need you anymore.”

 

“The Dark Lord wants Draco’s loyalty. He has the purest blood of any wizarding child in Britain. He would be the ideal poster boy for pureblood supremacy – but if you kill me he will have no reason to keep up the pretence. He will renounce the Dark Lord, re-join the Light and probably march in here to kill you personally.”

 

Bellatrix scoffed. “I have nothing to fear from that scrawny weakling.”

 

Mrs Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow. “You would do well not to underestimate my son. He has been trained by expert duellists and has honed his skills with one of the only two wizards that the Dark Lord fears. He has the brains of a Ravenclaw, the cunning of a Slytherin, the courage of a Gryffindor and the loyalty of a Hufflepuff. You are holding hostage not only his mother, but his best friend. It would not surprise me if he was on his way here right now.”

 

Harry’s brain was struggling to catch up. If – if he was understanding this right, then Mrs Malfoy had been held here to… force Draco to turn? They had threatened her… to ensure he would do what they wanted?

 

So… everything he had said… he had been _forced_ to say? And everything he had done… he had been _forced_ to do?

 

Harry remembered Malfoy laughing.

 

It had been the end of everything. In that moment, Harry had died and all that was left to do was throw himself at the enemy so his body would die too.

 

But… what if… he hadn’t meant it?

 

Crabbe and Goyle had been standing right next to him. In fact, Harry could not remember a single time he had seen Malfoy without them since the nightmare had started.

 

And right before Malfoy had said that fateful ‘no’ that shattered Harry’s world, something in his grey eyes had splintered. Harry had dismissed it as insignificant because he had believed that Malfoy had turned on him. Somewhere deep inside, he had just been waiting for it to happen. He didn’t trust easily. He loved before he trusted, and he had been certain that trusting Malfoy was a mistake that would ruin him in the end. But the truth was that Harry knew Malfoy, he knew those grey eyes, and he _knew_ that every hurtful word he said had been killing him.

 

_Think about what you would do if you were in Draco’s position._

 

Malfoy had been trying to protect his mother. Harry knew that if there was any chance he could save his own mother he would do whatever it took, whatever the cost.

 

He didn’t blame Malfoy for making the choice that he had. He couldn’t.

 

But the point was that it had all been an act.

 

Which meant that Malfoy did care about him.

 

And if he could care about him even knowing what Dudley had done to him, then maybe the others could too. Ron and Hermione… Luna and Neville and Ginny and the Weasleys… maybe they wouldn’t be disgusted with him. Maybe they wouldn’t think it was his fault. Maybe they would still be willing to stand by him.

 

Maybe what Malfoy had said was true. Maybe he did deserve to be loved. And maybe, even if he didn’t… maybe they would love him anyway.

 

He didn’t know if he could dare to believe it. But he wanted to.

 

Because then maybe… maybe there could be a reason to live after all.

 

Harry straightened. He lifted his chin and looked Bellatrix square in the eye. “Mrs Malfoy is right. You shouldn’t underestimate Draco. I’ve seen him angry and believe you me, you do not want to get in his way.”

 

“He wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand against us.”

 

“Maybe he’s not stupid enough to stand _with_ you.” Harry remembered something Malfoy had said once – that he had allied himself with the future victors of this war. He was confident that they could win because, for some unfathomable reason, he believed in Harry.

 

Harry supposed that gave him a reason to believe in himself.

 

“You’re on a sinking ship, Bellatrix,” Harry said. “I’d bail out now if I was you.”

 

“Bold words coming from someone in chains.”

 

“These won’t hold me long. You wait and see.”

 

“You really believe Draco will come? You’re a fool. Why on earth would he risk his life for _you_?”

 

Harry just smiled. “I guess you’ll have to ask him that when he gets here.”

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco could feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest, but he tried to keep a calm exterior as he strode down the long gravel driveway. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him to either side, both under a heavy _Imperius_ curse maintained by Granger who trailed a few metres behind. She wore Potter’s Invisibility Cloak and had cast a charm to silence her footsteps, so to any outside observer it should seem that two loyal Death Eaters and their hapless pawn were approaching the gates.

 

Even with an extraordinarily talented witch as back-up, Draco felt horribly exposed out in the open like this.

 

It wasn’t long before the wrought-iron gates loomed above him. He had never noticed how intimidating they were. This had always been his home, warm and comforting and wonderfully spacious after the cramped conditions of the Hogwarts dorms. But with his father in Azkaban, his mother a prisoner and Draco himself disowned from the family, the Manor seemed less like a home and more like a fortress. Their hastily-laid plans suddenly felt woefully inadequate, but there was no backing out now.

 

He took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

 

Crabbe and Goyle made a complicated little salute and the gates shimmered. Draco had to hope that his blood-bond would still permit him entry without setting off any Caterwauling or Intruder alarms.

 

He stepped forward and winced with anticipation, but the gates parted for him like smoke and everything remained still and quiet.

 

He was officially in enemy territory.

 

Lights glinted from the diamond-paned windows up ahead and shifting shadows alerted Draco to the fact that guards were patrolling the entrance to the Manor. Moments later, wand tips lit up and began moving in their direction. They knew someone was here and they were sending a welcoming committee. He would have to move and talk fast.

 

He turned back to the gate and pointed his wand, muttering three quick spells. The first should permit Granger entrance to the grounds. The second was a ward corrosive, _Contabesco Solvo,_ which would slowly eat a hole in the protective spells encasing the gate. The third was _Fusus Confringo_ – an explosion waiting to happen, if it worked. Unfortunately, he couldn’t wait around to find out.

 

He strode on quickly down the drive and was relieved when Crabbe and Goyle followed; Granger must have made it through.

 

“Who goes there?” a masked Death Eater demanded, stopping four paces away with his wand held at the ready.

 

Draco swallowed silently and hoped Granger would pick up on the cue.

 

“Crabbe and Goyle,” Crabbe grunted. “Junior.”

 

“We are not expecting you.”

 

“They are accompanying me,” Draco said coolly, stepping into the small pool of light from the man’s wand. “I demand an audience with the Dark Lord.”

 

“Malfoy.” The man’s voice curdled with distaste. “You’re in no position to be making demands.”

 

Draco drew on the haughty arrogance that he had relied on growing up. “Dolohov, isn’t it? A bargain was struck. I delivered Potter as ordered and now I expect to be remunerated for my trouble.”

 

“You can’t claim credit.”

 

“I was responsible for holding him together and I am responsible for breaking him apart.” Draco tried to ignore the heavy lump of guilt weighing in his gut at the memory of the look of utter betrayal on Potter’s face. “I as good as killed him myself; the Dark Lord only finished the job.”

 

“Potter isn’t dead.”

 

Draco exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. “You still have him in custody, do you not? Or has the incompetency of the Dark Lord’s followers reached a new low?”

 

“We’ve got him,” Dolohov growled. “He’s not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

 

“I gave the Dark Lord the one thing he has wanted ever since his return. I gave him the key to winning this war, and I did it to secure my mother’s freedom. I demand to see her immediately.”

 

Dolohov threw up his hands. “Fine! If you’ll quit your yapping! But don’t be surprised if you wind up joining her in chains. A few measly weeks of co-operation doesn’t make up for you turning traitor in the first place.”

 

“We’ll see. Lead on, Dolohov.”

 

The Death Eater muttered under his breath but gestured curtly for them to follow him back to the Manor.

 

It was strange to feel such dread climbing the flight of stairs that led into his own house, but Draco couldn’t shake the fear that he was walking to his death. The truth was that the Dark Lord didn’t need him anymore, and while Dolohov might be stupid enough to let him walk through the front door, Voldemort was not so easily fooled. One glimpse into Draco’s mind would reveal his true intentions and then everything would go to hell.

 

The coward in him wanted to run, far and fast, but he knew he couldn’t. Worse, he _wouldn’t_ , and if that wasn’t a sign that he had been corrupted by Gryffindors he didn’t know what was.

 

As the doors swung silently open for him, he forced himself to adopt a calm exterior and raised his chin with a false air of confidence. If this was the end, he was going to face it head on.

 

He stepped into the entrance hall and the doors closed behind him with a muffled _thump._ They should have clicked into place to re-seal the wards, but a silent spell from Granger must have wedged it open just a crack.

 

The hall was empty save for the portraits that lined the walls. He tried to ignore their disapproving gazes as he walked past; he shouldn’t care about the opinions of people long dead, even if they were his ancestors. He also tried not to think about how, if he died here today, it was unlikely that his portrait would ever hang in this hall. The Malfoy line would end with him and the house would probably go to Bellatrix…but then, he wouldn’t be around to care.

 

He shook off the thought, reminding himself that people were relying on him and doom-saying would not help anyone.

 

Dolohov knocked on the door to the drawing room. “My lord? We have a visitor.”

 

Draco glanced to the side and gave a tiny twirl of his wand to unlock the door to the stairwell, then quickly schooled his expression and slipped the wand back up his sleeve as Dolohov twisted the bronze handle and pushed him with unnecessary force through the doorway.

 

“The Malfoy brat, my lord.”

 

Draco took in his surroundings, displeased to see that the usual furniture had been shoved unceremoniously off to the side to make room for a long table. The lamps were blackened with soot, dimming the available light and giving the room an ominous feel. His mother would never have stood for it; she had taken great pride in the presentation of her household and it made him angry to see how these usurpers had allowed their home to fall into such a state of disrepair.

 

The anger helped to combat the terror he felt when he met cold red eyes.

 

Voldemort was sitting at the end of the table, Nagini curled around his neck. This was the first time Draco had met him face to face; his mother had held him back from going along to his father’s Death Eater meetings and he was glad of it – in fact if he could have gone his entire life without standing in the same room as this nightmare he would have been happy.

 

The pale, snake-like features literally made shivers run down his spine and the cold, calculating gaze made him feel like Voldemort was staring into his soul.

 

“Draco Malfoy. I wondered when I would be seeing you.”

 

He tried valiantly to keep his voice from shaking. “You knew I would come?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I gave you Potter.”

 

“Yes, you did. I was told of your remarkable performance and I witnessed the effects on Potter first-hand. Congratulations; you made him long for death in a way that nothing else in his miserable life ever could.”

 

His heart beat skittered in sudden fear. “But you haven’t killed him.” Dolohov had said as much, but he had to make sure.

 

“I cannot, as you know full well.”

 

“Right. You need him alive. Since I am largely responsible for delivering that crucial piece of information to you, I think it is fair to say that you are in my debt.”

 

“You wish to bargain?”

 

“I would like my mother to be remanded into my custody. We will leave this place, this _country,_ and never darken your door again. You can have the house; I ask only for our lives. It is a fair trade for yours, I think.”

 

“That sounds very reasonable.”

 

Draco severely doubted the sincerity in the Dark Lord’s words, but while he was here he might as well go the whole mile. “There’s one more thing. I want Potter.”

 

“I think you have pushed your luck far enough, young Malfoy. Do not test me.”

 

“He won’t survive in these conditions. You keep him locked up and he will waste away. Every atom of his being will lose the will to live and all the magic in the world will not be enough to sustain him. He will die.” The _‘And your horcrux with him’_ was left unspoken in consideration of their audience – discounting Crabbe, Goyle and Granger, there were six witnesses here. Two stood by the hidden entrance to the cellar, two flanked the glass doors that could open out onto the rear terrace, one stood by the door to the ballroom and Dolohov was guarding the door at Draco’s back. Not terrible odds, except for the fact that Voldemort was probably more powerful than the rest of them put together.

 

“What would you suggest?”

 

“Let me take him.”

 

“You think you can nurse him back to health?”

 

“I would like to try. It is in your best interests. I can take him to some remote tropical island somewhere where he can rest and recuperate. He’ll never be a threat to you again, and he might just live long enough to let you… secure your position.”

 

There was a long, pregnant pause during which Draco did his best not to squirm under the Dark Lord’s scrutiny.

 

Finally, Voldemort spoke. "You make an interesting proposition, but I am afraid I must decline. There are many dangers out in the world and I cannot afford to let any harm come to my prize. He stays.”

 

“I wish you had not said that,” Draco sighed. He hadn’t truly expected the Dark Lord to go for it, but if he had it could have saved a lot of bloodshed. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You may soon wish the same.”

 

Right on cue, there was the sound of a distant explosion. His spell on the gate had detonated, likely scattering hot shards of metal down the driveway and spooking the peacocks.

 

Draco smiled grimly. “You’re under attack, my lord.”

 

Red eyes widened with outrage even as the gathered Death Eaters scrambled for their wands.

 

With a flick of his wrist Draco’s own wand dropped into his hand. In the same instant, Granger whipped off the Invisibility Cloak.

 

A split-second later the air was thick with spells.

 

ooOOoo

 

“How long have we been at this?” groaned Seamus. “Feels like we’ve been crawling for hours!”

 

“Shh!” Ginny hissed back. “If they hear us this secret passage won’t be so secret anymore!”

 

“Buck up, Finnegan, Malfoy said it should only take us 20 minutes if we keep up the pace,” Ron whispered. He wasn’t going to admit that his hands and knees were getting sore or that this dark tunnel felt interminable. “The ladder shouldn’t be too much farther.”

 

“This is a Malfoy tunnel,” Seamus grumbled, “you’d think it would be tall enough to walk through, or at least be lined with soft carpet or something. I’m going to ache for a week after this.”

 

“Just be glad we’re not part of the group storming the front gate,” Ron said. “They’re the ones who will draw all the heavy fire.” His parents were in that group. Strategically, it was an important move – the gate was the main way in or out of this place. They had to hold it in order to set up a line of retreat and to stop the Death Eaters from escaping. But that made it a target for the enemy too, and the area was horribly exposed. That was why the adults had volunteered for the position – along with his parents, Remus, Tonks, McGonagall, Hagrid, Kingsley and Moody would all be making the charge.

 

He tried not to think about how easily they could fall.

 

He crawled faster. “Come on, speed it up guys,” he muttered. “If we’re late the party will start without us.”

 

Half a minute later he bumped his head into a solid metal bar and cussed.

 

“Language, Ron,” Ginny chided.

 

He fumbled in the dark, trying to work out how to get through the obstruction, and realised he had hit the first rung of the ladder Malfoy had talked about. “Alright, this is it. Malfoy said this should take us up through the walls of the house and into his chambers.”

 

“Can’t believe he has his own suite of rooms,” Dean said.

 

“Yeah well, chances are it is housing half a dozen Death Eaters now so look sharp.”

 

Ron led the way up the ladder, relieved at least to have the pressure off his knees. He was looking forward to getting out of this cramped space, even if he would be launching straight into a battle.

 

It wasn’t long until he thumped his head again – this time on a wooden trap door.

 

 _“Did you hear something?”_ a voice on the outside asked.

 

Ron froze.

 

_“Nah, it ain’t nothing. You’re paranoid, Saunders.”_

_“’Course I am. We got Harry friggin’ Potter downstairs, don’t we?”_

_“Snape said Dumbledore wasn’t planning a rescue.”_

_“Oh, well if_ Snape _says I guess we got nothing to worry about!”_

“Actually you do,” Ron said. The trap door had opened out into a large wardrobe (Ron couldn’t believe the size of the thing, or the sheer number of clothes that Malfoy owned) and once everyone else had climbed out after him he had pushed open the door.

 

Two Death Eaters whirled to face them, spilling their pack of cards all over the carpet.

 

“Blimey!” one exclaimed.

 

“Where the hell did you-”

 

“ _Stupefy_!” Ginny snapped.

 

The first one went down like a sack of turnips. The other whipped out his wand but Ron quickly shot off a stunner of his own. The man crashed heavily to the floor; Ron winced at the noise but at least he was out cold.

 

“So far so good,” he said. “Seamus, tie them up, make sure they’re out of this fight. Dean, help me get one of these windows open.”

 

Just then, they heard the sound of a distant explosion.

 

“Crap, we’re late!” Ron said. He wrenched frantically at the window but then heard Hermione’s words echo in his mind: _‘Are you a wizard or not?’_

He pointed his wand at the glass. “Sorry Malfoy. _Deletrius!”_ The window pane vanished.

 

The ground shook below them and the sound of ricocheting spells reached their ears.

 

“Are you sure we shouldn’t-”

 

“No, Ginny, we’ve got our job. Reinforcements will be there soon.” He hoped.

 

The conflict showed on her face but she obediently ran over to join them at the window. “On three,” she said. The four of them pointed their wands. “One, two, _three!_ ”

 

 _“Funiculus Camur!”_ they shouted in unison. Ropes shot out from their wand tips and sailed skyward. When they reached the roof a small flick of their wands jerked the ropes and hooked them onto the tiles.

 

Ron tugged on his line and hoped to Merlin that it would hold his weight. “Here goes.” He climbed out of the window and reluctantly released the ledge as he called out _“Ascendio!”_

Gravity tried to claim him, but the rope jerked tight and pulled him up at tremendous speed; he was at the roof in seconds. He seized the gutter and swung himself up out of the way, just as the others followed behind him. He did a quick inventory to check that everyone was in one piece and then shook off the ropes. “Alright let’s go.”

 

They ran across the roof. Ron tried to imagine he was up in the air playing Quidditch with a solid broom beneath him rather than skidding across tiles with nothing below him to break his fall if he lost his balance. The darkness wasn’t helping matters; he almost didn’t see the edge of the roof until he was right on top of it. He scrambled to a halt and snagged Ginny’s sleeve before she could tumble over.

 

“There!” Ron pointed.

 

In the distance they could see the burning rubble of what must have been the gate. Random bolts of colour were flying in all directions as the adults went to war.

 

“How are we supposed to tell who’s who?” Ginny asked, aghast at the chaos.

 

“We don’t. We just have to take care of the sentries-”

 

On cue, three Death Eaters came running out onto the balcony below them and began shooting off spells from the high ground.

 

“Heads up!” Ron yelled.

 

The Death Eaters spun, confused. A bolt of ruby hit one square in the face but the others were quick with shields that sent the other spells veering harmlessly off to the side. They retaliated with two blasts of lethal green. Ron launched at Seamus to knock him flat. The spells sailed overhead, but two others quickly followed. Ginny dodged them like Bludgers and shot off a stunner. It rebounded off a shield and almost hit Dean. He stumbled back to avoid it and slipped – Ron flung out a hand to grab him.

 

“ _Bombarda_!” Seamus yelled. The spell struck three paces from the Death Eaters, outside the range of their shields. A section of the balcony exploded in a belch of flame and rubble. One Death Eater fell screaming, the other made a running leap onto solid ground and cast a furious “ _Confringo!”_ back at them.

 

The fringe roof tiles were blasted into flaming shards that lit up the sky like fireworks. One sliced across Ron’s cheek; on reflex he clapped a hand over the wound but in doing so lost his grip on Dean. The other boy cried out as the roof disintegrated beneath him.

 

“ _Impedimenta_!” Ginny yelled. The bricks and Dean abruptly slowed their descent, giving Ron time to snatch Dean’s collar and yank him back out of the hole.

 

More spells shot in their direction. They flattened themselves against what little of the roof remained intact and scuttled up to the edge to lay down cover fire. The lone Death Eater had been joined by two more.

 

“They’re just going to keep coming!” Seamus yelled. He shot off an _“Incendio!”_ which was deflected and set the balcony rail on fire.

 

“We just have to keep them busy so they lay off our ground troops!” Ron called back. _“Deprimo!”_ The intense downward pressure of his spell busted another hole through the balcony, dropping a Death Eater into the room below. There was a _splash_ and a yelp of pain; Ron caught a glimpse of a large cauldron and remembered from Malfoy’s map that there was a Potions brewery down there.

 

That meant lots of potions ingredients and an explosion just waiting to happen.

 

“Seamus-”

 

“On it!” He used levitation spells to fling rubble out of the way to give him access to the room, then spat out ten summoning spells in quick succession. In their haste to reach him the potion ingredients collided in mid-air.

 

The resulting explosion shook the entire house. When the intense heat receded Ron peered over the edge to see that the entire east balcony had been destroyed.

 

But there were six Death Eaters over on the west balcony sending a slew of spells down on the fighters at the gate.

 

“Come on!” Ron yelled. They scrambled across the roof top to find a new angle.

 

“That flash of green looked like it hit someone!” Ginny cried out.

 

“Mum and Dad can take care of themselves,” Ron yelled back, even as he felt his own stomach lurch with fear.

 

Adrenaline kept them moving. Even though the roof seemed to extend forever they made it to the other side in two minutes flat and then they were engaged in another heavy exchange of fire.

 

Ron knew he couldn’t afford to be distracted, but even as he cast spell after spell and tried frantically to keep his companions alive he couldn’t help but wonder how the others were faring. The gate looked to be holding for now, but Malfoy and Hermione had walked straight into the dragon’s den in an attempt to get close to Harry. Not for the first time, he cursed his height for preventing him from fitting under the Invisibility Cloak with Hermione. She only had Malfoy and two _Imperiused_ buffoons for protection and she was probably facing Voldemort himself.

 

He had to cling to the knowledge that reinforcements were on their way and trust that she could hold out long enough.

 

ooOOoo

Neville couldn’t breathe. Everything was black. The world was pushing in on him from every side, compressing, crushing. He wasn’t sure how long his body could hold out under the strain; surely his bones would shatter like glass and his organs would implode.

 

He gasped as the pressure suddenly relented. Colours and sounds and smells returned; he staggered a little before he regained his footing.

 

“Is Master Neville Longbottom sir alright?”

 

His stomach lurched but he stubbornly tamped down on the nausea. “Yeah, Dobby, I’m fine.” He hadn’t Side-Along Apparated since he was a kid; his grandmother had been none too impressed when he had vomited all over her the first time and they had stuck to other forms of transportation since. He had forgotten how much he hated the sensation. “Luna?”

 

“That was fascinating! House elf magic has a very different feel to wizarding magic. I can see why our wards don’t have any effect – the structural matrix of the spells-”

 

The sound of a nearby explosion cut her off.

 

“Dobby-”

 

“We are in the elves quarters, Master Neville sir.” Multiple sets of wide, bulbous eyes peered at them from the shadows. “Through that door is the kitchen; from there a passageway leads straight to the drawing room.”

 

Neville and Luna took off at a run.

 

Behind them he could hear Dobby: “Bad things is happening here tonight. Master Draco has returned to the manor but he does not demand your service. Instead he urges you to flee, lest you be caught up in this battle. He does not wish you to be harmed. Dobby thinks that Master Harry Potter sir has been a good influence on him…”

 

The aromas in the kitchen were divine but Neville and Luna hurtled onward down the passage and burst through the door.

 

They were met with a scene of utter chaos.

 

Spells were flying in every direction. The splintered ruin of what might have been a table had been set alight and the fire was spitting embers that threatened to engulf the entire room in flames. The walls bore a myriad of scorch marks and only fragments remained of what looked to have been an ornate mirror above the fireplace.

 

It seemed that there were masked figures everywhere. Neville looked for Draco and Hermione; he caught a brief glimpse of platinum blond hair before he had to dive out of the way of a blasting spell. The door behind him exploded. He scrambled into the room on hands and knees and found a chair to use as a shield – he cast an imperturbable spell over it before he shot off two quick stunners at the Death Eater who had targeted him; they were reflected back at him almost immediately but hit the chair and shored harmlessly off to the side.

 

Luna was dancing through the spells, making the task seem natural and effortless. The enemy couldn’t touch her but her own spells flew with marked precision; even in the few seconds he spared to check on her he saw a Death Eater go down from a spell she had bounced off his companion’s shield.

 

Neville shot off three jinxes and a curse before he finally spotted Hermione in the centre of a whirlwind. Spells appeared as streaks of colour spinning around her at breakneck speed. It was one of the experimental spells they had found in a Wizarding Combat book from the Room of Requirement; the incantation was _Neo Ventosus,_ designed to catch all spells that _Protego_ couldn’t deflect. It would keep her safe for as long as she could maintain it, but she was trapped inside. That didn’t seem to be stopping her though – Crabbe and Goyle, under her _Imperius,_ were duelling two Death Eaters with uncharacteristic skill and proficiency.

 

Neville was forced to duck behind his chair again; a spell hit hard and shoved him backwards. His back slammed into the wall, knocking the wind out of him, but he gritted his teeth and braced for the next shot. There was a slew of them, one after the other after the other, and on the eighth he heard an ominous _crack_. He cut his losses and flung the chair away; a split second later it was blasted into smithereens. He was open and vulnerable, wide-eyed as an emerald bolt of energy arced towards him but suddenly Draco was there, snapping out a quick _Serpentsorcia_ that swallowed the spell whole.

 

“Thanks!” Neville gasped.

 

“Welcome to the party,” Draco said grimly. His face was streaked with sweat and blood dripped liberally from his hairline but he swiped it away from his eyes with the back of his hand and shot off another spell without missing a beat.

 

Neville added a stunner of his own; together they punched through a Death Eater’s shield and knocked him out cold. "Where's You-Know-Who?”

 

“Formal Dining room,” Draco grunted, wrenching the floor up in front of them to take the brunt of another attack. “Weaving a defence around Nagini. He’ll be back any second.”

 

That explained why any of them were still breathing. “What are we going to do? I thought we had to-”

 

“Yes. Get Luna on it as soon as Voldemort is back in here.”

 

“Luna?”

 

“If she is what I think she is, she’s our best bet. You’re both packing, right?”

 

Neville tapped the Basilisk fang holder strapped to his hip. “Yeah.”

 

“Good. Oh f-” A stunning spell had taken down Crabbe and they had few enough defenders as it was. “ _Rennervate!_ ”

 

Crabbe lurched back to consciousness, but he looked disoriented as he stumbled to his feet and stared at the mayhem around him. He caught sight of Draco and his face transformed with a furious scowl. He brought his wand up.

 

“Uh Draco, I don’t think he’s under _Imperius_ anymore-”

 

“ _Stupefy!”_

The stunning spell hit Crabbe square on. He went down like a stunned sheep.

 

“That’s him out for the count. Makes it easier for Granger at least- _Flagrante!_ ”

 

A Death Eater dropped his wand like it had burned him; Draco followed through with _Flipendo_ which slammed him bodily into the empty fireplace. His head struck the corner of the mantelpiece and he didn’t get up again.

 

“Six down,” Draco said. “Too bad we’re not the only ones with reinforcements.”

 

Neville threw up an angled shield that sent two spells rebounding back to their caster. “How do we get to Harry?”

 

“Entrance is warded. My spell is eroding it; hopefully it won’t hold much longer.”

 

“Where-”

 

“Panel on the right wall. _Relashio!_ ”

 

A Death Eater yelped as the stream of red sparks forced him to release Luna’s arm. She stamped hard on his foot, then spun and kneed him. He doubled over, groaning. Luna whipped her wand across his face; he went cross-eyed and crumpled to the floor.

 

“Hey, you know, we’re doing okay-”

 

The fire belched a thick cloud of black smoke that choked the air and the flames roared sky high. Neville and Draco lurched back from the scorching heat, coughing violently. Neville cast a quick _Anapneo_ at their throats to clear them and Draco produced a bubble of clean oxygen from his wand. They sucked the air in desperately, even as they tried to see through the smoke to work out what was happening.

 

A high voice spoke, somehow ringing out loud and clear over the chaos. “And so begins the _purification_ of the unworthy.”

 

Neville’s blood ran cold. You-Know-Who had returned.

 

“The panel,” Draco hissed. “Go! I’ll cover you!”

 

Neville knew he couldn’t hesitate. He ran low and fast around the outskirts of the room, trailing his fingers along the wall until they caught on a slight indent. He pushed and a crack appeared so he pushed harder. There was a fizzle of magic but then the wall obediently gave way. A staircase stretched out before him.

 

He risked a glance back and wished he hadn’t; he watched in horror as a curse sliced straight through Hermione’s whirlwind. The mass of spells froze. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the curse slammed into Hermione’s shoulder and her eyes blew wide with pain. She spun with the blow and slammed to the ground; in the same instant her collection of spells exploded outwards.

 

Neville had no choice but to dive through the doorway. A belch of flame and rubble followed him; he tumbled down the stairs and everything went black.

 

ooOOoo


	45. Closure

 

Harry’s chains rattled and dust rained on their heads as the entire building shook with the force of an explosion. Only moments earlier they had heard the sound of the door opening; now a body tumbled into the cellar and fell in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

 

From his vantage point across the room Harry couldn’t see who it was, but Bellatrix relaxed from her battle stance and laughed. “This is the best they could do?” She prodded the limp figure with her wand and received no response. “Out cold. Pathetic. But then, it is about what I would expect from a Squib.” She kicked him over onto his back.

 

“Neville!” Harry gasped.

 

Neville’s head lolled and blood trickled from a nasty cut over his eyebrow. His arm was trapped underneath him, twisted at an awkward angle, and his robes were singed all down his left side.

 

“Some rescue,” Bellatrix smirked. “Looks like you’re stuck here, Potter.”

 

“Don’t be so sure.” Harry was trying very hard not to worry about his friends, even as he was unconsciously pulling at his restraints in an attempt to reach Neville. The fact that they had come to his rescue meant more to him than he could say, but he hated that they were in danger and had to remember that this was their choice.

 

 _If these are the last days, then your friends have a right to choose for themselves how they will live them,_ Malfoy had said. _If they want to stand by your side and fight to protect you until their last breath, then that will be their decision and you should respect it._

 

But he would be damned if he would just stand back and let them fight his battles for him. “You want a fight, Bellatrix? Why don’t you let me down from here and give me back my wand?”

 

Bellatrix turned back to face him, an amused smile playing on her lips. “You’d like that, would you Potter? You could find out first-hand what your dogfather felt in the moments before I killed him.”

 

Harry felt the familiar sparks of rage but he wouldn’t let Bellatrix goad him this time. He had lost control at the Department of Mysteries but he had learned his lesson; now he was going to turn the tables back on her.

 

“It’s easy to talk the talk, Bellatrix, but let’s face the facts – you don’t have the guts to fight me. You’re afraid I’ll win. I’m the Chosen One, the kid prophesised to be the equal to your boss and you’re afraid that your powers just don’t measure up."

 

Bellatrix’s eyes bulged. “I have been practicing Dark Magic since before you were born!”

 

“Yeah, and they say that practice makes perfect but I guess in your case that’s not quite true.”

 

“I am the most loyal, most ruthless and the most feared of all the Death Eaters!”

 

“Is that why you’re on babysitting duty while the others are up there fighting in the real war?”

 

Harry knew he was pushing too hard, but he could hear the furious exchange of spells overhead and his fear for his friends was growing rapidly. He needed to get out of these chains.

 

“ _Crucio!”_ Bellatrix shrieked.

 

The spell slammed him back against the wall, his vision flashed white, his body felt ripped into a thousand pieces, fire burned in his veins-

 

"Stop, Bella!"

 

The pain cut off and Harry gasped for air.

 

“Are you insane?” Narcissa demanded. “You were ordered to guard him, not torture him to death!”

 

“Fear not, sister, I am not so foolish as to kill him against the Dark Lord’s orders. But he needs Potter alive – not sane. I am extremely skilled in the art of bringing my victims to the precipice without actually letting them fall into Death’s sweet embrace. Why, take the Longbottoms for example.” She glanced back at Neville and savagely kicked him in the head with the back of her heel. “Frankie and dearest darling Alice. Two highly intelligent, highly trained, highly respected Aurors – now long-term residents of the loony bin at St Mungos. Oh yes, we had quite a lot of fun together. There came a point where they were begging me to end their suffering, but I brought them through it and then pushed just that little bit more.”

 

Harry felt equal parts sick and enraged. Composure forgotten, he jerked against the chains, growling deep in his throat, wishing he could tear her limb from limb for what she had done. She had destroyed Neville’s parents and she had _enjoyed every minute of it._ She was _boasting_ about it.

 

Bellatrix cackled. “Frankie broke first, you know. I tied them up, inches from each other, and then made him watch as she screamed until her vocal cords bled. He was a hysterical mess of snot and tears, crying and begging me to stop, fighting desperately to reach her, and when he couldn’t something just snapped. His eyes glazed over… oh it was the sweetest victory. Naturally, his wife tried to bring him back to her, but when she realised he was long gone… her wail of despair was music to my ears. She didn’t last much longer. You see, the key is not to simply hurt the body. You have to torment the mind, break the spirit and rip the heart to shreds. That way, their body survives intact and their suffering lasts for a lifetime.”

 

Bellatrix raised her wand and pointed it directly between Harry’s eyes. “Most of the hard work has already been done with this one,” she said softly. “All that remains is for him to see his friends die, one by one. He will lose all will to fight, and then he will do whatever the Dark Lord asks of him.”

 

Harry glanced down at Neville; the first of his friends to fall as she threatened. But when he looked back at up her there was fire in his eyes, not despair. “I think you’ll find you’re wrong about that,” he said.

 

“Why? You think you are invincible?”

 

“No.” He knew that full well. “But neither are you.”

 

“What’s your point? You’re chained up, you can’t do anything to me.”

 

“Maybe not. But he can.”

 

Bellatrix spun around. Before she could bring her wand to bear or begin to utter a spell in her own defence, there was a bright flash of green. The bolt caught her square in the chest.

 

“That was for my parents,” Neville said grimly.

 

There was a frozen look of surprise on her face as she stared at the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, underestimated and overlooked for most of his life, suddenly grown into his own. There was no mercy in his eyes, no offer of a second chance.

 

He had not even needed to say the spell aloud. He had meant it with every fibre of his being.

 

Bellatrix’s body hit the ground with a _thud_.

 

And Neville’s parents were avenged at long last.

 

There was a long moment of silence.

 

“Neville?”

 

Neville pulled his gaze away from the corpse to look up at Harry. “I thought I would feel something. But it doesn’t change what happened back then.”

 

Harry knew what he meant. Bellatrix was dead, but that wouldn’t make Neville’s parents healthy and whole again, just like it would not bring Sirius back. “At least your parents can rest easier,” he said gently. “And she won’t ever be able to hurt anyone else.”

 

Neville nodded. His solemn eyes belonged on a much older face, but innocence was something Harry and Neville had both lost when they lost their parents. Neville had found his closure; now it was time for Harry to find his.

 

“Can you get me down from here?”

 

Neville raised his wand again – Harry noticed he was using his left hand while his right arm was cradled protectively against his chest – and cast the counter-spell. The manacles sprang open, dropping Harry to the floor. His arms burned at the sudden release of pressure but he gritted his teeth and pushed the pain to the back of his mind. There was work to be done.

 

He swiped Bellatrix’s wand off the floor. It felt wrong in his hand but it was better than nothing.

 

"Is your arm broken?” he asked.

 

Neville winced. “Feels like it.”

 

“ _Ferula,”_ Harry said, conjuring a bandage and splint which encased and immobilised the injured arm. “They can fix it properly back at school.”

 

“The fight’s not over,” Neville pointed out.

 

“You up for it?”

 

Neville shifted his grip on his wand. “Yeah.”

 

Harry clapped him on his good shoulder, a wordless gesture of thanks.

 

“Neville Longbottom, was it?” Mrs Malfoy said. “Is my son… is Draco up there?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. He led the charge.”

 

A soft, sad smile touched her lips. “I knew he would.”

 

Realisation dawned on Neville’s face as he glanced from Mrs Malfoy to the body on the floor and back again. “If you’re Draco’s mother, that means that Bellatrix was-”

 

“My sister. Yes.”

 

Neville winced. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have-”

 

“No, you did what you had to. Do not apologise. The only family I care about right now is my son.”

 

“Let’s go give him some back-up then, shall we?” Harry said.

 

Neville hesitated. “Harry, before we go out there, there’s something you should know.”

 

Harry grimaced. “I’m a horcrux. I heard.”

 

“Right. Well, uh, Draco said – his exact words were, ‘If anyone sees Potter before I do, tell him that if he does anything stupid to get himself killed, I’ll bring him back to life just so I can kill him myself.’”

 

Harry smirked a little. “Sounds like him. But the reality is-”

 

“No. Draco said not to even let you think about it.”

 

“But-”

 

“Don’t worry, we have a plan.”

 

Harry wasn’t sure what kind of plan they could have come up with overnight, but he decided that his friends had long since earned his trust. “Okay, tell me on the way. Sounds like they could use some help up there.”

 

"Ron's team should have joined them by now. They were on the roof laying down cover fire for the team at the gate, but Draco needs us all together for the finale if his plan is going to work. We’ll have to shift this rubble-”

 

“Wait!” a hoarse voice called out from the darkness.

 

Harry and Neville both snapped their wands up.

 

“Who’s there?” Harry called out. He had thought they were alone; no one else had come down here since he arrived last night, which had to mean whoever the speaker was had been here all along, silent and hiding.

 

“Harry,” Mrs Malfoy said quietly, “you might not want to-”

 

 _“Please,_ ” the voice groaned. “Please help us. Don’t leave us here.”

 

“Clear the stairs,” Harry said quietly to Neville. Goosebumps were crawling across his skin and he wanted to make sure they had a way out.

 

“You got it,” Neville said.

 

Cautiously, Harry illuminated the tip of his wand and ventured deeper into the cellar. “If you want our help, come out where we can see you.”

 

Hesitantly, a thin, almost skeletal figure stepped into the light. Straggly blond hair hung limply around a long, gaunt face and framed haunted eyes.

 

“Har-ry,” she wheezed.

 

He went very, very still. She was barely recognisable, but he knew the woman standing in front of him.

 

“Aunt Petunia.”

 

It was a nasty shock to his system to be confronted by someone he had hoped to leave firmly in his past. Unpleasant memories slammed to the forefront of his mind of a house that had never been his home and a family that had never loved him. He had never expected to see his aunt again, but he should have known she would be here. Voldemort had taken the Dursleys captive and had been using their memories as a weapon against Harry; where else would he keep them?

 

“You… came… for us…” She reached out bony hands, relief written all over her features.

 

“No, I didn’t,” Harry said, flinching sharply away from her touch. She had said ‘us’ and the implications were not lost on him. He felt his pulse skyrocket as fear pounded through his veins. _He_ was here. He been here this whole time, breathing the same air, hiding in the shadows only metres away from where Harry had been bound and helpless. Harry’s throat was dry and he gripped the wand in his hand so tightly he was on the verge of snapping it in half.

 

“But you’re here,” Aunt Petunia said. “Harry, please… I know we hurt you and I know… I know what we did was unforgivable but please, please…”

 

She was begging him; a cruel irony. How many times had he looked to her, desperate and pleading for help as her husband whipped him mercilessly with his belt for even the most minor of transgressions? How many times had he begged for even the smallest scrap of food when Uncle Vernon had been intent on starving him? How many times had he pleaded for a little rest and respite as she worked him to the bone? She had never offered him any relief, any compassion, any comfort. “I don’t owe you anything.”

 

“No, of course not, of course you don’t, but you’re – you’re so much like your mother, you’re a good – a good person. She was kind to me, even when I… I didn’t deserve it. She always saw the best in people…”

 

“Well I have seen the worst in you, and I am afraid I have no sympathy for your plight.”  


Harry would have turned his back on her, rejecting her as she had always rejected him, but he was wary of the shadows behind her. She was just the distraction, the lure to bring him closer.

 

“Harry…please have mercy on us.”

 

 _Us_. A shudder rippled through his body.

 

“Where are they? Where is _he?_ ”

 

“Vernon-V-Vernon is – he’s dead. They k-killed him. They killed him!” She buried her head in her hands and started to sob.

 

Harry didn’t care, not for his uncle, not for his aunt’s grief. He wanted to know the answer to his question but at the same time he was terrified to hear it. All his muscles were tense, ready to fight or run. He expected an attack to launch out at him any moment but he couldn’t afford to be crippled by his fear. “And D-” the word choked him. He coughed, forced it past his throat. “Dudley? Where is he?”

 

Aunt Petunia looked up at him through her tears. “He’s here,” she said softly. “But he’s gone.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

She pointed with a long bony finger.

 

Harry’s heart was skittering erratically and his legs felt like jelly, but he forced himself to take a step forward, and then another. Defensive spells were on the tip of his tongue and he was ready to use them if Dudley so much as looked at him wrong.

 

But the light revealed a very different image to the hulking monster that stalked Harry’s dreams.

 

Dudley didn’t smirk or leer or make obscene gestures or lewd comments. He didn’t swagger over, didn’t breathe filthy suggestions into his ear, didn’t demand anything or reach out with heavy hands to hurt and humiliate him.

 

He didn’t react to Harry’s presence at all.

 

Dudley was huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around his knees and whole body trembling. Pale skin hung loosely from his drastically thin frame. His eyes were glazed over and drool dripped from his slack mouth.

 

He didn’t so much as look in Harry’s direction, but even if he did it seemed unlikely that he would recognise him. It didn’t look like he even knew who _he_ was.

 

“Lord V-voldemort took a long time with Vernon, dragged it out, killed him slowly,” Aunt Petunia said. “But he only started in on Dudley yesterday. He found out what he- what he did to you and he- he did this. He was so angry. He’s an evil wizard who tortures and kills and _enjoys it,_ but he thought that what Dudley – what my son did to you was the most depraved crime any human could commit against another. He said he had to be punished.”

 

Harry looked down at his cousin.  Dudley represented everything Harry had suffered at Privet Drive. Dudley had been the favoured child, doted on, spoiled rotten and loved unconditionally by his parents. He always got whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and he could do no wrong. Harry had always been the opposite – despised as a nuisance and a burden, unwanted and unlovable, he could never seem to do anything right. He had grown up alongside his cousin and try as he may, he could never understand what it was that made Dudley so much better than him.

 

Dudley had always laughed when Harry was being punished. He had deliberately sabotaged Harry at every turn and made sure to double his workload. He had bullied and tormented him, doing his utmost to make Harry’s life a living hell, and last summer he had taken it that one step further.

 

Ever since that day, Harry had lived in terror, suffered sleepless nights, withdrawn from his friends, flinched away from any form of physical contact and had even contemplated suicide. He wanted to die because he didn’t want to remember and he didn’t want to risk the possibility that he could be hurt like that again. A part of him had been afraid that someday Dudley would find him again and pick up where he had left off.

 

Harry had relived that trauma only yesterday and it had been too much for him to deal with. He had thrown himself recklessly at Death, wanting to end it all.

 

But he was still here.

 

He was still alive, and the monster that had broken him was now broken himself.

 

Dudley was a shell of the person he once had been. He was incapable of hurting anyone, and with that realisation the fear that had been running rampant through Harry’s body was suddenly gone.

 

The power that Dudley had over him was gone.

 

He looked at Dudley now, and all he felt was pity.

 

“I don’t forgive you,” Harry said. “I will never forgive you. But I think you have suffered enough.” He turned back to Aunt Petunia. “Stay here,” he said. “If we somehow win this war, I will send someone back for you and they’ll take you home.”

 

“And if you lose?”

 

“I won’t be alive to care.”

 

Petunia nodded slowly. “It is a chance, and it is more than we deserve. Thank you, Harry.”

 

“I don’t want your thanks. Just make sure I never see or hear from either of you ever again.”

 

“Of course.”

 

He started to head towards the stairs, but Petunia’s voice called out to him.

 

“Harry. Be careful.”

 

Harry didn’t respond; it was the first hint of concern she had shown towards him in years, but it was too little too late.

 

He walked back to Neville and Mrs Malfoy.

 

“You alright?” Neville asked softly.

 

“Yeah.” He looked to Mrs Malfoy and noticed that she had covered her sister’s body with a blanket. “What about you, Mrs Malfoy?”

 

“Fine,” she said, her expression closed. “My sole concern is for Draco.”

 

“This plan of his, is it just for getting us out of here, or-”

 

“No,” Neville said. “We want to end this thing once and for all. It will take seven of us to pull it off, but Draco thinks that we should be able to-”

 

An agonised scream from upstairs drowned him out.

 

Harry had a sudden flashback to the Battle of Privet Drive, and the sound of Draco’s scream when he had been struck by the Cruciatus Curse after he had chosen to save Harry instead of himself.

 

This scream was the same.

 

Mrs Malfoy’s face went stark white. “That’s my son. That’s Draco!”

 

Harry didn’t hesitate. He bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and Draco’s mother was right behind him.

 

He burst out into a room that was in complete shambles, with everything broken or on fire or both. Fallen Death Eaters were strewn everywhere, including Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione was sprawled (unconscious, please only unconscious) in the corner and Ron was crumpled a few feet away from her.

 

“Neville-”

 

“I’ve got them, go on!”

 

Harry forced himself to run past his two best friends. The entire back wall of the drawing room had been obliterated – quite an impressive feat since it was the solid stone outer wall of the mansion and probably would have been magically reinforced – and beyond were the extensive gardens of Malfoy Manor. Harry could hear that the battle raged on outside.

 

He scrambled over the wreckage of shattered masonry out onto the terrace. He saw Ginny engaged in a furious duel with Rodolphus Lestrange, Dean and Seamus were battling the Carrows, and a few other DA Senior members were spread out across the manicured lawn fighting other Death Eaters, but where was-

 

“Draco!” Mrs Malfoy shrieked.

 

Harry followed her line of sight and finally saw him.

 

He hadn’t been hit by a Cruciatus Curse this time.

 

It must have been a powerful blasting curse. Draco was collapsed in a broken fountain with a five metre radius of scorched earth surrounding him. The water was spilling out, dousing the fire – but the water was stained a dark crimson.

 

And even from this distance, Harry could see that one of Draco’s legs was gone.

 

ooOOoo


	46. Seven

Severus knew his time had come.

 

For years he had been playing the part of a double-agent and to keep up the façade he had very carefully avoided becoming embroiled in any open conflict between the Dark and the Light.

 

But if ever there was a time to reveal his true loyalties, it was now.

 

This was the crucial moment, the final battle that would decide the fate of the Wizarding World. Perhaps the prudent thing to do would be to wait and see which side won, and then claim his allegiance accordingly, but he knew that he was in a unique position to tip the scales either way.

 

Severus was not interested in self-preservation. To be honest, he had never expected to make it out of this war alive. All he had ever wanted to do was keep his promise to Lily, and that meant doing everything in his power to protect her son.

 

In the end, it was neither the Light or the Dark that Severus served. Dumbledore and Voldemort both wanted to use Harry for their own purposes. Snape just wanted him alive and safe, for Lily’s sake. That was why he was here, and that was why he would fight.

 

So he entered the battle as a Death Eater turned traitor. He knew the layout of this house and he knew where the enemy was situated. He swept through the halls with a single purpose – to remove any and all obstacles that stood between Harry and his freedom. He was swift and decisive, taking down every Death Eater that he came across. Many did not even have time to realise that he had betrayed them before his spells knocked them out for the count. He picked his way through what remained of the Potions Brewery to clear out the eastern living quarters, then circled around to the West Wing and cut a swath through the Death Eater ranks assembled there. He knew that Draco had limited reinforcements coming his way; he was simply ensuring that the Dark Lord did not receive many either.

 

A quick scan of the second level revealed that the Death Eaters up there had already been taken care of, most likely by Ronald Weasley’s team on their way down to join the main battle.

 

Severus had to admit that Draco’s little army was doing remarkably well considering that the majority were school children. He guessed that it helped to have something, or rather someone, worth fighting for.

 

Severus happened to glance out of a window and realised that the battle had moved outside. More members from Potter’s extracurricular defence group had arrived on the scene, brought in by Dobby as planned, but they were busy fighting the dozen or so Death Eaters that Snape hadn’t managed to get to in time.

 

Draco was battling the Dark Lord on his own.

 

Spells shot between them at break-neck speed. Draco had developed his proficiency with shields; a simple _Protego_ could never have withstood many of the Dark curses that hurtled towards him, but all his research and experimentation for the DA must have paid off because spells were rebounding as fast as Voldemort could cast them. The shields were every colour of the rainbow and their shapes were fluctuating madly to meet the demands of the battle. Severus realised Draco was micro-adjusting in response to the Dark Lord’s every move; a feat that many highly trained Aurors could not have managed. He wasn’t even trying to attack – to do so would be pointless because two horcruxes were still in play – he was just keeping the Dark Lord busy until Potter could be rescued from his cell.

 

But Severus could see that Draco was tiring. His reflexes had slowed; even as Severus watched, two spells broke through his shields. Draco twisted to avoid them but in the moment of distraction another darted past his defences. The spells came hard and fast, driving him back towards the central fountain. He didn’t have much more space to retreat; soon the Dark Lord would have him pinned.

 

Draco advanced one step forward, but a barrage of spells shoved him back three paces. His leg bumped into the lower rim of the basin, startling him; he glanced back for a split second to get his bearings – and the ground beneath him exploded.

 

Flesh and blood splattered in all directions as Draco’s leg was torn apart in an instant. His heart-rending scream of pain was mercifully cut short as the concussion from the blast slammed him backwards; his head struck a jagged edge of what had been an elegantly carved water dragon and he was knocked out cold. Gravity swiftly reclaimed him; his body crashed into the water and went horribly still.

 

He wasn’t dead. As a Potions Master, Severus had a basic grounding in the medicinal arts and he knew that when a limb was torn off the remaining muscles would contract instantly, stemming the flow of blood, but that would only hold for a couple of minutes. If help didn’t get to him fast, Draco would die.

 

Severus was not going to let that happen.

 

He ran for the stairs and, abandoning all sense of decorum, cast “ _Glisseo”_. The steps transformed into a slide and he skidded down it like it was a Muggle skate-ramp. He stumbled out into the Entrance Hall, regained his footing and wrenched open the bronze-handled door that led to the drawing room. He was in time to see Potter and Narcissa sprint outside, rushing to Draco’s aid, but there was still Voldemort to contend with. They would need help.

 

“Professor!” Longbottom yelled. He was in the corner, bent over two of his fallen classmates. “Hermione got hit in the shoulder with something, a curse, her veins are turning black, I can’t wake her!”

 

Severus cussed under his breath but rushed to the boy’s side. There was a deep wound in Granger’s shoulder that had instantly festered; black poison was rapidly spreading under her skin and would soon reach her heart. The Veneficus Curse. Deadly if not treated within ten minutes and her time was nearly up. _“Adficio Epotus,”_ Severus chanted. “Say it with me, Longbottom. _Adficio Epotus!”_

The wound opened and began to gush blood. Longbottom freaked out, “What did we-”

 

“It’s draining the poison,” Severus told him. “Watch. _Adficio Epotus.”_ The red blood that spilled was mixed with swirls of black; the poison was withdrawing from her veins. “What about Weasley?”

 

“I think he’s just unconscious.”

 

“ _Rennervate_!”

 

Weasley groaned.

 

“And the others?” Severus demanded. “Draco’s plan requires all seven of you.”

 

“Ginny and Harry are outside. Luna’s dealing with the snake.”

 

“The Dark Lord didn’t shield Nagini?”

 

“No, he did, but Luna’s an Ext-extern- ah, someone who can see the external workings of magic. Draco thinks she can find the weakness in the shield and pull it apart.”

 

“I nearly have it!” Lovegood called from the adjacent room.

 

“Be careful!” Neville yelled back. “That thing has a nasty bite!”

 

There was a horrendous amount of hissing coming from the room, but Severus had to hope Lovegood could handle it.

 

“As soon as these two can walk you need to be out there,” Severus said. “Draco will need you within his Sight.”

 

“What if he-”

 

“He’s not going to die if I have anything to do with it.” He had made a promise to Draco’s mother, too; both Potter and Draco needed to make it out of this mess alive.

 

He had to hope that he was not already too late.

 

ooOOoo

 

Draco lay broken and bleeding in the wreckage of the fountain that bore his namesake and Voldemort was standing over him, cackling gleefully. His wand was aimed directly at Draco’s heart but he hadn’t cast the fatal spell yet – he was waiting for Draco to die slowly and painfully.

 

Harry had stood frozen in horror at the sight, but the sound of Voldemort’s laughter broke through the haze of shock and grief, flooding him with rage and no small dosage of adrenaline.

 

Voldemort was going to pay for that.

 

“Draco!” Mrs Malfoy started to run towards her son but Harry caught her arm and yanked her back. “Stop! _Stop_ , stay here _,_ Draco wants you safe and Voldemort can’t kill me, I’ll get him, trust me, you have to trust me, stay here-”

 

“My _son!_ ”

 

“I know!” Harry pushed her back firmly one more time before he launched into a sprint. He knew she would follow him anyway but he was determined to get there first – he knew what it was to have your mother die protecting you and he didn’t want Draco to lose her that way.

 

"Voldemort!” Harry yelled.

 

The Dark Wizard turned to him, shock and anger transforming his features into the visage of a vicious snake. “Harry Potter! How-”

 

Harry wasn’t interested in having a conversation. He spat off three spells in quick succession, forcing Voldemort to throw up a shield to deflect them. Harry kept casting, spell after spell, a barrage that he hoped would keep Voldemort distracted long enough to give Harry a chance to cross the distance between them. A few spells shot back at him, but all non-lethals – Voldemort was still concerned about his horcrux.

 

Harry drew closer and tried to cast a disarming spell but this wand wasn’t as cooperative as his own; it fritzed back at him and almost made him drop his own weapon.

 

"That is Bellatrix’s wand!” Voldemort roared.

 

“Well she’s dead, she doesn’t need it,” Harry shouted back, hoping to keep Voldemort’s attention on him and away from Draco. “But I don’t like this wand, so, _Accio wand!_ ” He fixed a firm image of his own holly wand firmly in his mind and sure enough it came whizzing out of Voldemort’s pocket. He snatched it out of the air and flung the other over his head, hoping Mrs Malfoy would be thinking clearly enough to catch it.

 

Spells flared from his wand with heightened ferocity until finally he skidded to a stop in front of the fountain, standing directly between Voldemort and Draco.

 

“You should have fled while you had the chance,” Voldemort sneered. “Draco only has a minute left, if that.”

 

Harry glanced back at his friend; his gaze caught on the mangled remains of his leg and he almost retched. Draco was in a bad way and there was so much blood. He was dying. If Harry didn’t do something soon he would lose him, but when he tried to think of a healing spell his mind went blank.

 

“You cannot save him,” Voldemort said, “and he will only be the first of your friends to die. Stop this nonsense immediately; tell your pathetic little army to stand down and return to your cell, and I _may_ spare some of them.”

 

Harry hesitated. Neville had said they had a plan, but with Draco inches from death it seemed they were forced to fall back on Plan B – live to fight another day.

 

Harry didn’t want all of this to be in vain, especially not when Draco had paid such a steep price already, but he would never be able to choose his own life over the lives of others, especially people he cared about.

 

Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his hands in surrender.

 

The battlefield went still, all except a figure clad in black robes who moved swiftly across the lawn. “My lord!”

 

“Ah, Severus. Escort Mr Potter back to the dungeon and ensure that you guard it yourself this time. Bellatrix has failed me.”

 

“My lord, I can save the boy.”

 

“Draco? He is of no use to me.”

 

“But my lord, Potter’s surrender is conditional on Draco’s survival. _Isn’t it,_ Potter?”

 

“Yes,” Harry answered immediately. “Draco dies and,” Harry pointed his wand at his own chest, “and I die with him. Your horcrux too.”

 

Voldemort scowled. “Fine. Heal him. Makes no difference to me.”

 

Snape moved to Draco’s side. He lifted him gently from the wreckage of the fountain and laid him out on the ground. He began to mutter an incantation. “ _Vulnera Sanentur.”_ Blood seeped across the ground towards them and began to pull back into Draco’s body. “ _Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur.”_ The water from the fountain ran clear again and the colour returned to Draco’s face. “ _Vulnera Sanentur.”_ The skin of the stump began to knit together.

 

“Can’t you-”

 

“I’m sorry, Narcissa. The damage is too extensive.”

 

Her lips pressed tightly together but she didn’t say another word as Snape closed over the wound. The skin grew smooth and unblemished, but Harry stared in horror at what little remained of Draco’s left leg when he was finished. The stump barely extended a hands-width from his hip.

 

“The consequences of resisting me,” Voldemort said callously. “Be grateful I spared his life.”

 

Draco groaned and his eyelids fluttered.

 

“Severus, escort Mr Potter.”

 

Reluctantly, Snape stood and moved to take Harry’s wand.

 

“Wait, at least let me talk to him-”

 

“I have granted you enough favours, Harry Potter.”

 

Harry swallowed. There was so much he needed to say. He needed to tell Draco that he knew he had been acting under duress and he forgave him for everything he had said and done. He needed to tell him that he was grateful for the rescue attempt. He needed to say sorry that he had ended up so terribly hurt. He needed to tell him not to try to come back for him. He needed to tell him to go with his mother and get as far away from this war as he could.

 

He needed to say thank you for giving him the will to live again and making him believe that he could have a future, even if in the end it couldn’t be.

 

But he didn’t want to push his luck and have Voldemort rescind his promise to spare the others.

 

Harry let Snape take his wand and begin to guide him back towards the Manor. But before they had made it three steps, a sudden sharp pain stabbed through Harry’s skull. He cried out and dropped heavily to his knees, even as Voldemort did the same behind him.

 

“My lord! What is wrong!”

 

Death Eaters ran to support their master, but Snape leaned in close to Harry and whispered, “Horcrux?”

 

Harry nodded. The pain was sharper this time, but he recognised the feeling as the destruction of a horcrux. It had to have been Nagini, which meant-

 

“I’m the last one. Professor-”

 

Snape seemed to know what he was going to say before he said it. “No, Potter, I have made too many promises to protect you.”

 

“But-”

 

“Draco has a plan.”

 

“A plan? He just got his leg blown off!”

 

“He doesn’t need it.”

 

“ _Doesn’t need_ -”

  
“Hush! Don’t get hysterical, you’ll draw attention. You are the one who must defeat the Dark Lord, we know that much, but the prophecy never said you couldn’t have help. Miss Weasley is already in place, we just need Mr Longbottom, Miss Lovegood, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley – and here they come now.”

 

Sure enough, Luna was running across the lawn (wielding a blood-stained Basilisk fang), closely followed by Neville. The other two appeared in the gaping hole that used to be a wall; Hermione was leaning on Ron for support but they were both moving quickly in this direction.

 

“You and Draco make seven. But you’ll need this.” Snape thrust Harry’s wand back into his hand.

 

“I don’t understand-”

 

But suddenly he did. Because he looked to Draco and grey eyes locked with his. In that instant, Harry felt something he had never consciously felt before but immediately recognised as Draco’s magic reaching for his. It was a warmth buzzing under his skin and he felt his magic flare as they connected.

 

Draco didn’t stop there. His face twisted with concentration and Harry felt another presence brushing up against him.

 

A thought pressed across their connection, as though it were not simply their magic that had joined but their souls and minds as well. _Ginny,_ Draco explained. Their magicks flared and Harry could feel the intense effort Draco was expending as he tried to form these links between them. _And now… Lovegood. Longbottom._ New power sources sparked and sizzled as they connected. Harry could see sweat dripping down Draco’s face. Harry didn’t think Draco had ever used his Sight to pull off something of this magnitude; he wasn’t even in physical contact with any of them but somehow he was managing to stretch his magic across the distance. Sending out so many threads was clearly getting to him though – his face was pinched with the strain. _Ron and..._

Blood burst from Draco’s nose and he cried out with pain, but there was a victorious cry across the magical bond: _Granger!_

 

Magic roared to life between them, raw and immense and more powerful than anything Harry could have ever imagined. It slammed into him like a tidal wave, filling up every atom of his existence and then flooding across to the others – somehow more than just the sum of its parts. Seven, the most powerful magical number, multiplying their combined magic a hundredfold.

 

Harry’s body began to glow and the others lit up like beacons.

 

“What are you doing?” Voldemort yelled. “Stop them!”

 

Spells shot across the lawn, several aimed at each of them, but Harry yelled out “ _PROTEGO!_ ” and seven different shields erupted, not deflecting the spells but _disintegrating_ them.

 

Voldemort looked stricken with terror as he faced a power he knew absolutely nothing about and could not possibly comprehend. _“AVADA KEDAVRA!”_ he screamed.

 

Harry’s senses and reflexes were heightened as well; the emerald bolt seemed to move in slow motion and he simply stepped out of its path. He sent back a spell of his own. “ _Expelliarmus!”_

 

Voldemort’s shield might as well have been non-existent for all the good it did him; Harry’s spell wrenched the wand out of his hand and it spiralled through the air, allowing Harry to catch it neatly.

 

“Tom,” Harry said, and even his voice seemed laden with power. “I am giving you one chance to surrender.”

 

“Never! You cannot threaten me – while you still live I cannot die!”

 

Harry hesitated. Voldemort had a point; even with all of this power brought against him, a single horcrux would be enough to keep his spirit alive indefinitely.

 

Draco’s voice reverberated along the threads of magic that bound them, echoing in Harry’s head. _Trust me_.

 

Harry cast his doubts aside. If Draco was confident that this plan of his would work, then Harry was too.

 

“Harry already got rid of you once,” Draco said out loud. “That night in Godric’s Hollow when a little baby made history as the Boy Who Lived, and the curse you thought would kill him banished your twisted soul instead. You were dead and gone for thirteen years until you built a body to contain you. But this time, _Lord Voldemort_ ,” his tone dripped with disdain, “we’re making your vacation from this mortal coil far more permanent.”

 

_Now, Harry._

 

Harry raised the wands with their twin phoenix-feather cores and levelled them at the Dark Wizard who had haunted his steps since he was a baby. The wizard who had murdered his parents and condemned him to life with the Dursleys. The wizard who had tried to kill him more times than he could count. The wizard who had caused the deaths of Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black and so many others. The wizard who had brought so much pain and misery to their lives.

 

“It’s over, Tom,” Harry said.

 

“ _You can’t!”_ Voldemort shrieked. _“_ I am _immortal!”_

 

But it was so simple, and here at the end of years of struggle, all Harry felt was calm. There was no rage, no grief, just the simple truth that this needed to happen.

 

The words came easily. “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

 

Two bolts of emerald energy shot out from his wands.

 

Harry saw the moment Voldemort realised that he was going to die. His eyes widened and Harry felt his jolt of terror just before the spells struck.

 

He started to scream-

 

And Harry’s world imploded.

 

ooOOoo

 

They all felt it. White-hot agony ripped through their soul-bond as the alien shard of a tortured soul writhed and shrieked within Harry. It was the last horcrux, the final piece holding Voldemort to this plane of existence.

 

Draco forced his eyes open. This was the crucial moment.

 

Pushing past the pain, he pressed a thought along the threads that connected their magicks. _Luna?_

_I See it! Oh it’s horribly deformed, how could someone do that to their own soul?_

_Where is it? We need to know exactly if this is going to work._

_Rising from the body. One foot, two feet, three feet…_

Draco wished he could See it himself, but this whole exercise was based on trust. _Alright. Harry, I need you with us._

A black, tumultuous storm filled with jagged flashes of red and green was ripping through Harry; gripping the threads like lifelines, his magic struggled to stay afloat. _W-what?_

_Just try to focus. Point your wands, all of you. Aim six feet above the body._

Harry’s attention sharpened. _The body? So he’s-_

_Voldemort’s body is dead; the soul is trying to escape. But we won’t let it. This ends here and now. The spell is ‘Expugno Ligatio’. Got it?_

_Got it,_ the others hummed back.

 

Draco aimed his wand carefully. _Okay Luna, say when._

_Five feet… Now!_

Seven voices cried out in unison. _“EXPUGNO LIGATIO!”_

Liquid silver shot out from their wands, hit a single point in mid-air and burst into a thousand threads that rapidly twisted and wove around each other.

 

_Did we get it Luna?_

 

_The soul is caught in the dead centre of our spell! It’s trying to get out through the gaps in our mesh, though._

_Alright, close ranks!_

The silver web constricted tightly and then solidified into a ball. The surface gleamed, smooth and seamless.

 

Slowly, carefully, they lowered the make-shift prison to the ground.

 

 _We have to hold the spell for at least 10 minutes to make sure it is impenetrable,_ Draco told them. It had been an obscure spell that Granger had found in a dusty old Aurors manual, unused and untested for centuries. It required the power of a Centraliquist to send out the threads of magic, the bond of friendship between seven witches and wizards to permit the magic-melding, the incantation itself ‘capture and imprison’ to conjure the silver wire, the Sight of an Externalist to provide precision targeting, and a remarkable level of cooperation between all participants to make the spell work.

 

Back when it was first invented it had been used by law enforcement agencies to catch magical miscreants – seven highly trained witches and wizards could work in a team to weave the prison around any target and escape was impossible until they consciously chose to break the spell. But ultimately the practice was discarded, as the level of trust required between the seven team members was hard to manufacture and the Sights were dying out.

 

Somehow, 300 years after the last recorded use of the spell, seven teenagers had managed to pull it off. It seemed impossible, but the evidence was right there before their eyes.

 

Voldemort’s body lay pale and lifeless on the ground, vacant red eyes staring up sightlessly at the sky, and his soul fragment was imprisoned in a silver shell where it could never harm anyone again.

 

For all intents and purposes, Lord Voldemort was dead.

 

“Potter? You alright?”

 

Potter stumbled closer and for a long moment all he could do was stare down at what remained of his enemy. “He’s dead. He’s actually… dead. Gone.”

 

“It’s over,” Draco told him.

 

Potter looked like he almost couldn’t believe it, like the idea was incomprehensible to the boy that had lived under the Dark Lord’s curse his entire life.

 

“My head hurts,” Potter said.

 

“We’ll find a way to remove the horcrux. It might take some time, but that’s a luxury we can afford now.”

 

“Because it’s over.” Potter seemed to be testing how the phrase sounded in his mouth, trying to adjust to this new reality.

 

Draco smiled. “At long last.”

 

“What about the Death Eaters?”

 

“Oh, they’re all running for the exit like rats abandoning a sinking ship,” Ginny reported as she came over to join them. “Of course, as far as they know there is only one way out of this place and that gate just so happens to be guarded by Aurors, professors, Order members and my parents.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, a fierce gleam of victory in her eye. “They won’t get far.”

 

"And everyone’s okay? Well, except for-” Potter stammered to a halt, his expression aghast as he looked over to Draco.

 

Draco didn’t follow his gaze when it inevitably dropped to stare in horror at the empty space where his leg should have been. He hadn’t looked for himself yet. He didn’t want it to be real. He thought he could feel echoes of pain in the limb and he tried believe that it was proof that the leg was still there. But he knew better.

 

His leg was gone. He knew that. He had known in the instant that Voldemort’s blasting spell had struck directly beneath him. He had screamed as the explosion ripped through him, spraying flesh and bone and blood in all directions (and he had thought that nothing could compare to the Cruciatus curse but he had been wrong). Small mercies that the blast had knocked him unconscious. When he came to, his mother had been cradling him in her arms, silent tears running down her cheeks. He had been overjoyed to see her, but the feeling had somewhat dulled when he remembered what had happened. There had been no time to wallow in self-pity, however; the plan to defeat the Dark Lord rested on his shoulders and the loss of his leg was nothing compared to his fear of losing Harry.

 

“Our plan worked,” Draco said, deciding to focus on the positives. “We defeated Voldemort and we rescued the two people we came here for. You’re safe, my mother is safe, and none of us are dead. This is a better outcome than any of us could have possibly hoped for.”

 

“But Malfoy, your leg…”

 

Draco drew in a slow breath. This wasn’t going to go away. He had to face his new reality.

 

He forced himself to look.

 

All that was left was a stump.

 

Shaking fingers glided over the smooth skin. Snape had done good work; even the most skilled Healer would not have been able to do better. Curses like this were irreversible. His leg could not be regrown.

 

“Small price to pay,” Draco said, trying to inject some Gryffindor courage into his voice. He wasn’t going to regret what had happened. He had to move forward.

 

“Thank you for saving my life, Professor Snape,” Draco said.

 

Snape bowed his head solemnly.

 

“Help me up, Potter?” Draco reached out a hand and Potter obediently pulled him up. Draco wobbled on his sole-remaining leg, trying to balance his new weight now that an entire limb was missing. He suddenly realised that he couldn’t walk anymore, or run, or climb the stairs at Hogwarts, and if he tried to hop he was liable to fall flat on his face. Moving around was going to be difficult. Even _standing up_ was proving nearly impossible, but Potter was holding him steady with an arm around his waist.

 

“Okay?” Potter asked softly.

 

“I will be,” Draco said. If they had learned anything over the past few months, it was that recovery took time. Draco remembered how Potter had been that first morning after Dudley had hurt him, and in the days and weeks that had followed. Yet here he was, maintaining physical contact without freaking out or flinching away.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked in turn.

 

“Yeah,” Harry said. He looked at the friends who surrounded him and a slow smile spread across his face. “Yeah, you know, I think I’m good. The fight against Voldemort… it is really over.”

 

Draco grinned at him. “You have your whole life ahead of you, Harry Potter. What are you going to do with it?”

 

Green eyes sparkled with more joy and freedom than they ever had before.

 

Potter opened his mouth to reply-

 

There was the faintest of popping sounds.

 

“Headmaster, no!” Snape yelled.

 

Before Draco could react to the sudden appearance of Professor Dumbledore, who had arrived at the battle about an hour too late to be of any use to them, a green light flashed past him.

 

Draco’s mind went blank. He couldn’t have seen what he had just seen.

 

He turned to look at Potter, to check for himself that his tired brain was just playing tricks on him.

 

There was a frozen expression of surprise on Potter’s face.

 

Then the light in his eyes went out.

 

ooOOoo


	47. Fallen

 

The world dropped out from underneath him and Draco would have hit the ground hard if Potter’s body hadn’t cushioned his fall.

 

This was the second time. Draco remembered when Potter had used a summoning spell on him to drag him inside the wards of Privet Drive, rescuing him from the torment of the Cruciatus Curse, and in poor repayment Draco had slammed bodily into him. Considering that he had already been suffering from injuries inflicted by both the battle and his abusive relatives, the collision must have hurt something awful.

 

Potter had never offered a word of complaint, and he didn’t say anything now either.

 

Draco scrambled off him, an apology on his lips.

 

He caught sight of green eyes.

 

They were vacant. Staring sightlessly up at the sky.

 

Empty.

 

Draco remembered. Potter had fallen first and his dead weight had dragged Draco down with him.

 

Dead.

 

There had been a flash of light. Green, like Potter’s eyes, but instead of being filled with life it was the harbinger of death.

 

The killing curse.

 

Potter had been hit with the killing curse.

 

Draco seized a fistful of Potter’s robes. “Potter! _Potter_!” He shook him, furious at the lack of response. “Potter! _Harry!”_

 

Silence.

 

Draco was stunned. Every time Potter had lost himself in a nightmare or a flashback, the simple use of his name had managed to bring him back to reality. It was Draco’s little ace in the hole and he only ever used it in emergencies to make sure it didn’t lose its impact.

 

But this time it didn’t work.

 

Potter lay limp and unmoving.

 

Draco looked at the faces around him, trying to find confirmation somewhere that he was just going crazy and had imagined this whole thing. Maybe he had passed out from blood-loss and was having a vivid nightmare. All he had to do was pinch himself.

 

But though his arm stung, he didn’t wake up.

 

Ginny was staring in horror with her hands pressed over her mouth. Ron wore a shell-shocked expression and Granger had buried her face in his shoulder, clinging tightly to him as she shook with silent sobs. All the colour had drained from Longbottom’s face and Lovegood was clutching his arm, whether for his benefit or hers, Draco didn’t know. Other DA members watched on, wide-eyed, disbelieving.

 

Professor Snape had collapsed to his knees in the mud. He was mumbling something, over and over. _“I’m sorry, Lily, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh gods, Lily, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry…_ ”

 

Draco knew what he was seeing. Grief. Potter’s friends were grieving.

 

Which could only mean one thing.

 

Filled with dread, Draco looked back down at Potter.

 

The spark was gone.

 

Draco had fought so hard to reawaken that spark in Potter’s eyes. When Potter had been grieving, Draco had offered comfort. When Potter had been hurt, Draco had healed his wounds. When Potter was tired, Draco had given him rest. When Potter felt hopeless, Draco had helped him to believe in a better tomorrow. When Potter wanted to give up, Draco had given him the strength to keep going. When Potter felt the burden was too heavy to bear, Draco had carried some of the weight. When Potter had felt worthless, Draco had shown him his value. And when Potter had been convinced that no one could love him, Draco had proved him wrong.

 

He could never explain how or why he had come to feel so strongly for a boy he had once considered an enemy. He didn’t know why he cared so much. He had rushed to Potter’s rescue in the full knowledge that he could die in the attempt to save him, and he had never even hesitated. He would rather lose his own life than abandon the best friend he’d ever had.

 

He had thought there were only three possible outcomes. The sobering reality had been that they would probably both die, but at least they would go out fighting. He had dared to hope that Potter would made it out alive, even if he had to lay his own life down to give him the escape he needed. And, unlikely as it had been, Draco had thought that maybe, just maybe, they would win this fight and they would both be okay.

 

But the possibility that he, Draco, would survive while _Potter_ lost his life… It had never even crossed his mind.

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

 

Voldemort was _gone._ They had defeated him. The war was over. Potter was _safe_ and _alive_ and _free._

 

This wasn’t real.

 

Potter could not be lying dead in front of him.

 

But Draco’s hand was on his chest and he could not feel a heartbeat.

 

Dead.

 

Potter was dead.

 

Draco couldn’t breathe. His body jolted, trying desperately to pull in oxygen but it couldn’t get past the lump in his throat.

 

Dead.

 

After everything, all Potter had suffered and survived, all they had been through together, all they had fought for…

 

What was the point of any of it, if Potter’s life could just be snatched away in an instant?

 

He was dead, and he hadn’t died in battle. He-

 

He had been _murdered._

 

Draco’s gaze snapped up as the true extent of what he had seen finally registered.

 

Dumbledore.

 

At the end of everything, Dumbledore had appeared out of nowhere. He had pointed his wand at Potter. With no warning, no provocation, no explanation whatsoever – he had cast the killing curse.

 

Dumbledore had _killed him._

Potter was dead and _Dumbledore had killed him._

 

“You.”

 

Draco struggled to push himself to his feet but one of them was missing, gone, and the other couldn’t support him on its own. He crashed to the ground, but he wouldn’t let that stop him.

 

“ _You._ You killed him!”

 

He dragged himself forward on hands and knee, trying to manipulate a body that was suddenly crippled, tipping and tottering unsteadily, one foot kicking out in an attempt to propel him in the right direction. Rage pounded through his veins; every fibre of his being wanted to lunge at Dumbledore and rip him apart with his bare hands, but his progress was pathetically slow and Dumbledore loomed over him. He stared down at Draco with something resembling pity on his wizened old face.

 

“I am sorry. I did what had to be done. What none of you were prepared to do.”

 

“ _You killed him,”_ Draco hissed.

 

“He was a horcrux.”

 

“He was a _person._ He was a boy with his whole life ahead of him!”

 

“He was always meant to die. It was his fate.”

 

“We _saved him_! We stopped Voldemort!”

 

Dumbledore eyed the silver sphere. “A temporary prison that would never have held him for long. Whether in months or years, Voldemort would have escaped and then the war would have started all over again. I have ended it. Rest assured that Harry has not died in vain. The horcrux has perished and without it Voldemort’s soul cannot survive in this world. Even as we speak, the last soul fragment is dying. Voldemort will haunt this world no longer. The war is ended and all of wizarding kind is freed from his tyranny. He was the greatest evil our world has ever known and I have defeated him once and for all.”

 

 _“You?_ No. _Harry Potter_ defeated him. What you have done is _murder_ the hero of the wizarding world.”

 

“I did what was necessary.”

 

Dumbledore believed that. Draco could see it in his eyes. He truly believed he had done the right thing, that the ends justified the means.

 

“You raised an innocent boy to be the lamb led to the slaughter. Harry trusted you, and you betrayed him.”

 

“Did you not do the same, to save your mother?”

 

The words slammed into Draco like a physical blow. He remembered what he had done, what he had said, how he had seen Harry in his most vulnerable moment and then hurt him even more.

 

He never even had the chance to say sorry.

 

Harry was _dead._

 

“My act at least was not a selfish one,” Dumbledore continued. “As much as it pained me, I did it for the sake of others. The world is safer now. The threat is ended.”

 

“We thought so, but all along the true evil was hiding in plain sight, masquerading as a doddery old headmaster. You have been playing a long game, manipulating us like chess pieces, making us dance, and now here at the end you think to claim this as a _victory_? Harry did everything you ever asked of him, suffered more than anyone should have to suffer, gave his all to this fight, and when we found a way to save his life you turned around and _killed_ him in cold blood! He didn’t have to die!”

 

“No he didn’t. But you – with your reckless interference – _you_ have killed him. Everything was carefully arranged. Voldemort was supposed to be the one to deliver the killing blow. You rushed in without knowing the full story – if you hadn’t, maybe Harry would be alive right now.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Blood was taken from Harry that night in the graveyard and used in the resurrection spell that enabled Voldemort to once again walk this earth. Voldemort carried Lily’s sacrificial magic within him – if he had shot the killing curse at Harry, the horcrux would have been destroyed but their blood bond could have kept Harry safe. Instead, you took matters into your own hands. You killed Voldemort’s body and therefore eradicated Lily’s blood protection. The horcrux still needed to die, but now, because of your actions and your refusal to _listen_ , Harry has died with it. His death is on _your_ hands, not mine.”

 

Draco’s eyes boggled. “How dare you? How _dare you?!_ I was willing to lay down my _life_ for him. I would take his place now if I could! I did everything I could to save him, _everything!_ It should have been enough! He was going to be okay. He was going to be alive and happy, he was going to finish school and go on to do further study and become the next Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and get married and have kids and live to a ripe old age – and now he’s dead, he’s gone, you _killed_ him and he’ll never know what it is like to be free.”

 

Tears welled up in Draco’s eyes. He tried to hold them back but reality was sinking in, the white-hot rage he felt was cracking and grief was pushing to the forefront. He felt like a giant hand had reached into his chest and seized his heart and was slowly crushing it. It _hurt,_ hurt in a way that could not be touched by the Cruciatus curse or the feeling of his leg being blown apart.

 

He had invested all of his time, effort, strength, emotion, _love_ into this one person, this simple messy-haired boy with dorky glasses and a scar on his forehead. To call him a friend wouldn’t even begin to express what he meant to Draco. He had changed Draco’s entire life, changed him as a _person,_ made him new, made him better, given him a purpose, shown him that he could be more than a poor imitation of his father, shown him that purity of blood was not in your ancestry but in your willingness to sacrifice everything for someone else.

 

For all these reasons and more, Draco had loved him.

 

And Harry had died, never truly believing that anyone could care about a broken little orphan boy like him. They could say the words a hundred times, but deep down he just hadn’t known how to believe them. He had needed time. He had needed the chance to heal. He had needed them to show him, a little more every day, until the truth finally settled in his heart.

 

Now he would never get the chance.

 

Draco’s tears spilled over. “He’ll never know what it is to be loved.”

 

“He’s in a better place now,” Dumbledore said.

 

The insincere platitude was a slap to the face. The rage flooded back, filling Draco with the urge to fight, hurt, _kill,_ seek vengeance for an innocent life stolen too soon.

 

A snarl on his lips, Draco whipped his wand up and pointed it directly at that murderous bastard’s face. “ _Avada_ -”

 

Dumbledore was faster; his spell wrenched the wand from Draco’s hand and sent it spinning off into the distance. He shot another spell that slammed Draco flat on his back and he was building up for a third when there was a sudden _CRACK._

 

Draco strained to raise his head and was surprised to see a little house-elf standing between him and the Headmaster.

_"_ Dobby will not let you hurt Master Draco sir,” the house elf declared. “Bad Headmaster Dumbledore has already committed an unforgivable crime.  Bad Headmaster Dumbledore has – has _murdered_ Harry Potter.” His voice squeaked with emotion but he stood, firm and furious, before one of the most powerful wizards of the age. “Harry Potter was good and kind and brave and nice to Dobby and his friends. He was the best wizard Dobby has ever known. Bad Headmaster Dumbledore will not get away with this. Dobby will not let him.”

 

“House elves are not permitted to wield magic against wizards.”

 

“Dobby is a free elf! Master Harry Potter sir freed Dobby and now Dobby can do whatever he likes! And Dobby chooses to stop Bad Headmaster Dumbledore before he hurts anyone else!” With that, the little house elf shot off a tremendously powerful blast of magic that knocked the old wizard off his feet. His wand skittered away across the lawn and when he tried to rise again another blast of elf magic pinned him down.

 

“What shall Dobby do with him, Master Draco sir?”

 

“The Wizengamot should decide,” Draco said grudgingly. Inasmuch as he wanted to kill him for what he had done to Harry, if Draco stooped that low he would be no better than Dumbledore. “But until they do…” He reached out with his magic, slipped under Dumbledore’s defences and found his core. Draco concentrated with all his might, dragging all of Dumbledore’s threads under his control and twisting, weaving, tangling them tightly around the pulsing orb of power. The core bucked and flared, trying to throw him off, but it was a caught in a cage of its own magic and the more it struggled the more trapped it became.

 

Draco withdrew, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction. “Your power is bound, Headmaster,” he said. “You won’t be hurting anyone else ever again. Dobby, take him to the Ministry for Magic and make sure they keep a close guard on him. If they want witnesses for the trial, we will be happy to oblige.”

 

“It will be done, Master Draco sir,” Dobby said. He grabbed Dumbledore’s ankle and they both disappeared with a _CRACK._

A long silence followed.

 

Draco crawled slowly back to Harry. He could feel the weight of the others’ gazes and realised that somehow he had become the leader here. They were looking to him for direction, as if he had any idea what they were supposed to do now.

 

With Dumbledore gone and Voldemort gone, the fight was over. The war was over.

 

But it all seemed so horribly pointless.

 

All Draco had really wanted to do was save Harry.

 

He had failed.

 

With the last of his strength, Draco reached out and gently closed Harry’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

 

He could feel the shaking setting in. The sudden release of adrenaline, the shock of what had happened, the grief – it hit him all at once.

 

He couldn’t hold it back any longer and he didn’t even want to try.

 

Sobs wracked his body and he made no attempt to dash away the tears that spilled freely down his cheeks. He wasn’t just crying for himself, but for the boy who had held in his tears for as long as Draco had known him. He cried for the losses Harry had suffered in his life, for the pain he had been through, for the future that had been stolen from him. He cried because Harry couldn’t cry anymore.

 

He cried and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to stop.

 

Because Harry was gone and the world would never be right again.

 

ooOOoo


	48. Reunions

White light.

 

Warm. Quiet. Peaceful.

 

He had never felt anything like this before.

 

He was used to the pain of old injuries, the noise of a dorm room, the chaos of battle.

 

Here everything was still. Soft.

                                                                                       

He could lie down and sleep, just sleep, forever resting. No one would disturb him, and somehow he knew that nightmares could not reach him here.

 

He wondered if perhaps there was something more important he should be doing, but he felt finished. Complete. His job was done; he wasn’t needed any more. It was over.

 

He realised that probably meant he was dead. It didn’t come as a tremendous surprise, and it didn’t distress him as much as he thought perhaps it should. He had never expected to live very long, but he was glad at least that he had lived long enough to see his mission completed.

 

Voldemort was dead. Everyone back at home was okay and the world was safe. His life was a small enough price to pay.

 

He had to wonder, though, where exactly he was now. If this was life (or rather, afterlife) behind the veil it was not so bad, but he had rather thought there would be more people around. Truth be told, he had hoped he would be able to find his parents.

 

“We’re here, Harry,” a soft voice said.

 

Two figures appeared in the mist. He blinked, trying to see them more clearly, and his surroundings coalesced into the form of… a train station? King’s Cross, he thought, only pure white and virtually empty save for-

 

“Mum? Dad?”

 

The woman had long auburn hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders and bright green eyes that twinkled as she smiled at him. “Yes, sweetheart.”

 

Looking at his dad was almost like looking in a mirror. They had the same untidy black hair that stuck up at the back, the same facial structure and even the same hands, but his father’s eyes were a warm hazel colour.

 

“Hello, son.”

 

Harry just soaked in the sight of them, as though he were still standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, able to look but not to touch.

 

“We’re real,” Lily said. “We’re here.” She spread her arms.

 

Harry took one step, and then another.

 

They didn’t fade or disappear.

 

He moved closer and reached out a hand, wondering if he dared to touch them. He didn’t want to prove they were just an illusion.

 

Lily seemed to sense his hesitation and met him halfway, touching her fingertips to his.

 

He could feel her. She was warm and solid and _there._

 

Unable to hold back a moment longer, he threw himself into her arms.

 

She embraced him tightly and James wrapped his arms around both of them.

 

Comfort. Real and tangible and _his._

 

Harry burst into tears.

 

His parents didn’t tell him to be quiet or scorn him for his weakness or hit him to shut him up.

 

They hugged him tighter. Lily stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. She rubbed soothing circles on his back.

 

“It’s okay, Harry,” James murmured. “We’re here, we’ve got you. It’s okay.”

 

Harry didn’t know how long he stood there, clinging to them, but gradually his tears slowed. “Is this – is this what it feels like?” he asked.

 

“Love?”

 

He nodded against his mum’s shoulder, not quite willing to let go yet.

 

“Oh, love is one of those strange and mysterious and wonderful things. It’s hard to describe, but you know it when you feel it.”

 

He frowned a little. “I don’t know if… if I’ve felt it before. Is it always this warm and… squishy?”

 

Her laugh sounded like the tinkle of bells. “When it comes in the form of a hug it does.”

 

“I don’t… usually like hugs. But this is… different. It makes me feel safe.”

 

“That’s because you know we would never hurt you,” James said. “And you know that if anyone tried to hurt you while we were here we’d beat the crap out of them.”

 

“Language, James,” Lily admonished him.

 

“Sorry. But son…” James pulled back to look him in the eyes. “I hope you know that if we could have been there to protect you, we would have. We wanted nothing more than to keep you safe. We didn’t mean to leave you all alone.”

 

“We’re so sorry for everything you’ve been through. Especially at the hands of my sister and her family. If we’d had any say at all we would have sent you to live with Sirius, or Remus, or the Weasleys…”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Harry told them.

 

“If I could get my hands on Dumbledore…” James growled. His hands clenched into fists.

 

Harry blinked, suddenly remembering. “He killed me.”

 

Fury sparked in James’ eyes. “Why that traitorous b-”

 

“It’s okay, Dad. I was a horcrux. I know why he had to do it, and it didn’t hurt.”

 

“He didn’t ‘have to do it’,” James snarled. “He’s a clever man. He could have found another way. Hell, a bunch of _teenagers_ found another way. He just had no interest in saving you. I can’t believe we _trusted_ him.”

 

Harry looked at his dad curiously. “You remind me of Draco. He gets angry like that.”

 

“That’s because he loves you,” Lily said.

 

Harry raised his eyebrows.

 

“Oh come now, sweetheart, there are many different kinds of love.”

 

Harry thought about how he felt when Draco was ranting and raving about the Dursleys or Rita Skeeter or Dumbledore – that warm feeling that would spread inside him at the thought that someone would defend him so fiercely.

 

“Oh,” he said.

 

“Your friends love you almost as much as we do. You just couldn’t see it because the Dursleys convinced you that you don’t deserve to be loved. I’ll tell you right now: that is absolutely, totally and utterly not true. Your father and I loved you the instant we laid eyes on you. You won Sirius over the first time you grabbed his nose. Remus was enchanted by the way you would blow bubbles at him and giggle when they popped. Mrs Weasley fell head over heels when you came up to her, eyes wide and hair sticking out in all directions, to ask how to get onto Platform 9 and 3/4s. Ron decided he liked you as soon as you offered to share your food with him on the train. Hermione will never forget the way you came charging into that bathroom to save her from the troll. Neville has always been grateful for the way you stick up for him. Luna loves how she can be herself around you. And Draco… well, there’s a very fine line between love and hate and in the moment that you risked your life to save his, you had made a friend who would stick by your side through anything.

 

“They all express their love in different ways. I know you’re scared to let people in after you have been hurt so much, but if you open your heart even a little you’ll feel it.”

 

Harry thought about the way that Hermione was always helping him with his homework, and the way Ron shared his family with him, and the way Mrs Weasley always tried to feed him third helpings at the dinner table, and the way Mr Weasley would eagerly ask him so many questions, and the way that Neville had opened up about his parents, and the way that Luna had held his hand, and the way that Draco had come charging to his rescue at Malfoy Manor…

 

Lily was smiling at him. “You see? You are so, so loved.”

 

For the first time, Harry believed it.

 

“I wish I could tell them that I love them too,” he said. “I guess it is too late.”

 

“I’m sure they knew, Harry,” James said. “For someone who has been through so much pain in your life, it is remarkable just how much love you have been able to share with the people around you.”

 

“But Harry, if you did want to tell them in person… maybe you could.”

 

“What do you mean? I thought Dumbledore killed me.”

 

“He did hit you with a killing curse. But those only have the potency to kill one person, and you were harbouring a soul fragment at the time.”

 

“It is gone, isn’t it?”

 

“Oh yes, well and truly. By all rights you should be dead too, but there were some… rather unique circumstances. Can’t you feel it, Harry?”

 

“Feel what?”

 

“Concentrate. Look deeper.”

 

Harry frowned but closed his eyes, trying to work out what she was talking about.

 

He felt lighter. His head was clearer. He wasn’t tired and he didn’t hurt. But he didn’t think that’s what she meant.

 

He looked deeper still.

 

There!

 

His eyes flashed open. “I can feel them! Draco, Ron, Hermione – all of them!”

 

“That’s right. You were soul-bonded with six of your closest friends at the time of your would-be death, which means a little of you was inside each of them and vice versa. The killing curse was diluted. You still took the brunt of it, which is why you are here now, but I think… if you wanted to… you could go back.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say.

 

“You don’t have to,” James said. “Lord knows you’ve already been through more than most people should in a lifetime. But it is a shame you didn’t get to see what life could be like without abusive relatives and the threat of an insane megalomaniac hanging over your head.”

 

Harry remembered Draco talking about the future he could have once the war was over. It had sounded… nice.

 

“But if I go… you can’t come with me.”

 

“No, son. We can’t.”

 

“But we’ll always be here, sweetheart, waiting until you are ready to come home again.”

 

Harry felt torn. “I’ve missed you.”

 

“We’ve missed you, too. But we’re always with you, sweetheart, even if you can’t see us.”

 

“The ones who love us never really leave us,” Harry said. “Sirius told me that.”

 

“He’s right.”

 

Harry closed his eyes again. He could feel his friends grieving for him and that was the last thing he wanted.

 

“Will you be okay?” he asked.

 

Lily smiled at him. “Of course, sweetheart.”

 

“We’ll be watching over you, son,” James promised. “So be good. But not too good. You’re the son of a Marauder after all.”

 

Harry laughed and hugged him. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

“Do me a favour?”

 

“Anything.”

 

“Tell Remus to marry that girl, Tonks. He deserves a little happiness.”

 

Harry smiled broadly. “I will.”

 

“And tell Severus that I’m grateful for everything he’s done,” Lily said. “I know he seems like a grumpy old git, but he’s been trying to look out for you.”

 

Harry thought about the way that Snape had saved Draco’s life and decided that, grumpy or not, he wasn’t so bad after all. “Okay, I can do that.”

 

“That’s my boy.” Lily hugged Harry close and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Harry.”

 

His heart felt full to bursting. “I love you, too.”

 

James reached out and ruffled his hair. “Go on then, kid, off with you. Take care and be happy.”

 

Harry nodded. “Love you, dad.”

 

“Love you, son.”

 

Harry hugged them both one more time. He didn’t want to ever leave them, but he knew they would be here when he returned. And there were other people who loved him who were waiting for him to come back.

 

“I’ll see you,” he said.

 

“Not too soon,” James countered. “We want you to lead a long life.”

 

“And I want lots of grandchildren,” Lily said.

 

Harry wrinkled his nose and she just laughed at him. “Give it time.”

 

Harry felt a tug on the threads of magic; it felt like Luna.

 

“I think I better go,” he said.

 

His parents nodded and stepped back to give him some space.

 

He drank in the sight of them, fixing the image permanently in his mind, before he closed his eyes. He felt out the threads of magic, and he followed them back.

 

ooOOoo

 

“I don’t know why you’re all so sad,” Lovegood said.

 

Draco looked up at her incredulously. Sometimes she gave the impression that she wasn’t quite with it, but Draco had noticed the bond growing between her and Potter this year and he would have thought she would feel something at his passing.

 

“We’re grieving for a friend,” Granger explained tightly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and Weasley’s robes were soaked from her tears.

 

“It’s what people do when someone they care about dies,” Ginny said.

 

Lovegood looked confused. “But Harry’s not dead.”

 

“He was hit by the killing curse, Luna,” Neville said. “No one survives that.”

 

“No one except Harry Potter.”

 

Denial. It was a stage of grief; a far more pleasant one than the anger and sorrow that followed. Draco tried to be gentle. “I’m sorry, Lovegood, but he’s gone.”

 

“For now. But he’ll come back.”

 

The girl was irrepressible. Draco wished he had her optimism. Maybe if he could live under the delusion that Potter would come back to him some day it wouldn’t hurt so damn much to lose him, but dead was dead and Potter was gone.

 

“I’m sure he would if he could,” Granger said.

 

“He can. Can’t you guys feel it?”

 

“Feel what?”

 

“Look!” She pointed at the silver sphere that was supposed to imprison the last fragment of Voldemort’s soul.

 

“Yes,” Draco said dully. “It’s empty. Because Harry is dead and the horcrux with him.”

 

“That’s not what I mean. We made that sphere with our combined magicks and we had to hold it for at least ten minutes before it would become permanent.”

 

“So?”

 

“So if Harry had really died, the soul bond would have broken and the sphere would have disintegrated. But we’re all still tied together. Harry included.”

 

Draco frowned. He wasn’t sure he could believe it, but he closed his eyes and reached out with his Sight.

 

Six threads. Ginny, Granger, Lovegood, Longbottom, Weasley… and Potter.

 

The thread hadn’t broken. It was still there, pulsing between them, weak but getting stronger with every second that passed.

 

“How…?”

 

“A killing curse is meant to kill one person, and Harry had the power of seven rushing through him. The killing curse just wasn’t strong enough.”

 

“But he hasn’t been breathing. His heart stopped.”

 

“Maybe he was busy. There must be at least a couple of people beyond the veil who would have wanted to talk to him while he was there.”

 

Draco was having a hard time wrapping his head around the concept that Potter could be dead, but somehow _not_ dead at the same time.

 

“Come on, guys, he is going to need our help if he’s going to make it back. It’s a long way.”

 

Draco didn’t know if he could believe what Lovegood was saying – so many of her ideas were so farfetched – but if there was even a slight possibility that Potter could come back to them…

 

“Alright, everyone focus on the thread that connects you to Potter. Feed your power into it and, I don’t know-”

 

“Tug,” Luna advised. “He can feel it.”

 

Draco shrugged. What did they have to lose? He dipped the thread into his well of power, letting the thread soak it up, and then _tugged._

 

He heard a loud gasp and his eyes shot open in time to see Potter lurch upright.

 

Alive. He was _ALIVE!_

 

“Harry!” Granger shrieked.

 

Harry looked up at them, green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hi, guys. Miss me?”

 

Weasley let out a loud _whoop_ of joy and started dancing a jig on the spot.

 

“Potter,” Draco growled.

 

Potter looked at him, all innocence and smiles. “What’s up, Malfoy?”

 

Draco struggled to get himself upright and then grabbed Potter’s shoulders to look him square in the eyes. “You’ve got some nerve, Potter.”

 

“I thought you would’ve wanted me to come back.”

 

“I would have preferred that you never die in the first place!”

 

Potter grinned at him. “There you go again, getting all riled up and angry because I was hurt. Mum says that means you love me.”

 

Draco stared at him, struck dumb.

 

Potter smirked. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy.”

 

Draco sputtered, trying to convince his mouth to start forming words again. “Potter – don’t you _ever_ do that to me again!”

 

"Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m planning to stick around a while.”

 

Draco had been gearing up for a fight, so all he could do was stammer lamely, "Uh, well, good."

 

“Malfoy?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Can I help you up?”

 

“Sure…” Draco said suspiciously.

 

Potter stood and then took Draco’s hands. He pulled him into a standing position and helped him find his balance. “I’ve got you,” Potter promised.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Potter looked at him seriously. “Thank _you._ ”

 

“We’re okay, right?” Draco asked. There was still a lot left unspoken between them.

 

“Yeah, we’re good,” Potter assured him. “Now, there’s something I want to do, but before I get to that- Professor Snape?”

 

Snape had been staring at Potter ever since he had woken up, as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes, but now his jaws snapped shut and his expression closed. “What is it, Potter?”

 

“My mother says she’s grateful.”

 

“Lily?”

 

Snape’s eyes were suspiciously bright and Draco suspected there was an untold story there, but he didn’t press and neither did Potter.

 

“I’m grateful too,” Potter added.

 

“And I as well,” Narcissa spoke up.

 

“And me,” Granger said

 

Snape coughed. “Don’t mention it,” he said gruffly. The tips of his ears had turned red. “I must go and notify the Minister of the Dark Lord’s demise.” He turned swiftly and strode away, cape billowing behind him.

 

Potter shook his head. “Grumpy git,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

 

“You saw your mum?” Draco asked quietly.

 

“And my dad. They’re good. Happy.”

 

“You didn’t want to stay with them?”

 

“A part of me did,” Potter admitted. “But there are a few more adventures waiting for me here, I think. And a few people worth sticking around for.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “That’s a dangerously sappy sentiment, Potter.”

 

Potter’s smile broadened. “Isn’t it? And while we’re at it – hey guys! C’mere!”

 

“Harry?” Granger asked.

 

Potter beckoned them closer. “Come on, get in here! Group hug!”

 

Draco looked at him like he was crazy. “Potter? You okay?”

 

“Better than I have been in a long, long time,” Potter said, and without another word of warning he had crushed Draco in a hug.

 

Draco let out an _oomph_ of surprise but Potter didn’t let up and a few seconds later Granger, Weasley, Ginny, Lovegood and Longbottom had joined them.

 

Draco felt the soul-bonds flare at the contact and hastily disconnected the threads before they all imploded from the sheer power coursing through them. But even without magic linking them together, Draco could still feel the bond.

 

He realised that these were the friendships of a lifetime.

 

The pureblood prince of Slytherin would once have been ashamed to be associated with a Scar-head, a Mudblood, two Blood Traitors, a Squib and a loon.

 

Now he was proud to call them his friends, and he wilfully abandoned all sense of propriety to hug them back.

 

ooOOoo

 

_The End_

_Epilogue to follow_


	49. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The big one. The one we've all been waiting for...

 

Three weeks after the death of Lord Voldemort and the official end of the Second Wizarding War, Harry and his friends returned to Hogwarts.

 

They had taken a well-deserved break from school work and probably should have spent the holiday on a sunny beach in Australia, but instead they had spent most of their downtime helping to rebuild Malfoy Manor. The mansion wasn’t quite restored to its former glory, but the walls and the furniture had been put back together at least; Draco said the remaining damage gave the place some character.

 

They spent a few days in Saint Mungos, trying to work out what they could do for Draco’s leg. The Healers confirmed that it could not be grown back, but Augustus Pye (official expert in the merging of the Muggle and magical Healing arts) came up with a spelled wheelchair that could levitate over uneven ground and ascend staircases. Draco had been quietly disappointed that he would no longer be able to play Quidditch, but Ron thought on the problem and later presented him with a broom that had been fitted with safety straps and a counter-weight. Draco thanked him by inviting them all to play Quidditch on the Malfoy Pitch and securing a ten-point victory for the RonCos.

 

Dumbledore’s trial was expedited thanks to extreme pressures from the parents of Hogwarts students who had been horrified to discover (through an anonymous tip Hermione had left on Rita Skeeter’s desk, which led to a front-page article the very next day) that the Headmaster of the school, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot besides, had attempted to murder one of his students. Draco, Harry and Snape all testified at the hearing, and their stories were corroborated by the Pensieve memories of more than half a dozen others who had been present at the time. Dumbledore was indicted for the attempted murder of a minor, complicity in child abuse, withholding information pertinent to the allied war efforts and half a dozen other charges. Draco had already bound his magic, but Dumbledore was also sentenced to life in Azkaban.

 

While they were at the Ministry, Harry told the Minister that Narcissa Malfoy had played a crucial role in the war effort and made the strong suggestion that she and her husband both be pardoned for their involvement with the Death Eaters. While Scrimgeour did not submit entirely, Lucius had his sentenced reduced and Narcissa was exonerated, which Draco said was about as much as they could have hoped for.

 

Professor McGonagall was instated as the new Headmistress at Hogwarts. Professor Tonks took over her position as the Transfiguration teacher (given it was a particular speciality of hers), while Remus Lupin stepped back into his role as the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher (and since he was a veteran of the Final Battle no one contested the appointment). As promised, Harry passed on his Dad’s message to Remus which made him blush furiously and mutter something about Prongs sticking his nose into other people’s business even from beyond the grave, but a few days later Tonks was proudly showing off her engagement ring and Remus looked happier than he had ever been. Finally setting aside old family prejudices, Narcissa reconciled with her sister Andromeda and passed on her congratulations to her niece.

 

With romance in the air, Ron finally got his act together and officially asked Hermione to be his girlfriend. Harry wasn’t sure he was quite ready to take such a bold step, but Ginny had approached him to give her blessing to him and Luna, saying she thought they would make a cute couple, and Harry knew that when he was finally comfortable enough to ask Luna she would say yes. Meanwhile, Astoria Greengrass had taken matters into her own hands and asked Draco out herself.

 

The students of Hogwarts were quite accustomed to having celebrities in their midst by now, so while there had been a giant party on their first night back and a deluge of congratulations over the next few days, life at Hogwarts soon settled back into a normal routine.

 

Two weeks in, Draco woke up early in a blissfully quiet dorm room. He no longer had to ward his bed at night; Crabbe and Goyle had been expelled and sent to a Young Wizards Correctional Facility. But old habits die hard – most days he was still waking up before the crack of dawn.

 

Draco manoeuvred himself into his chair, casting a silencing charm on the wheels so he would not wake anyone else, and made his way up to the Great Hall. He found Potter already there, munching on an enormous breakfast (no doubt delivered by Dobby who had been overjoyed to learn that Master Harry Potter sir was alive and well and had been spoiling him rotten ever since).

 

“Trouble sleeping?” Draco asked, immediately concerned. If the scar was hurting him again-

 

As though reading his thoughts, Potter reached up to trace the lightning bolt on his forehead. “No, nothing like that. I just thought it would be nice to watch the sunrise this morning.”

 

“Well you’re not going to get the best view in here,” Draco said. “Come on.”

 

He led Potter up to the Astronomy Tower. It was slower going in the chair, but he activated the levitation charm and Potter guided him carefully up the long flight of stairs. They arrived just in time to see the first rays of sunshine spill over the horizon.

 

“Would you look at that,” Potter breathed. Brilliant colours spread across the sky and the Great Lake was bathed in a golden light that reflected off the ripples in the water, appearing to set the entire world aflame. As they watched, the Giant Squid burst through the surface of the lake, spraying droplets like liquid gold in all directions.

 

It was truly a sight to behold, more beautiful than anything that man or magic could create. But to Draco it held a special meaning. He could remember the day he had cursed the sunrise for beginning Potter’s torment anew. He remembered how tired and broken Potter had been, how dull and lifeless his eyes were.

 

But now Potter’s eyes sparkled with joy and wonder as he gazed out at nature’s beauty. He was free, unburdened, happy.

 

Draco couldn’t help but grin. “It’s the start of a new day, Potter,” he said.

 

Potter smiled back at him. “Yes it is.”

 

**THE END**


End file.
